


Poured Over Ice in an Old-Fashioned Glass

by bealeciphers



Category: The Flash (Comics), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, canon death of Ronnie Raymond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bealeciphers/pseuds/bealeciphers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Captain Cold and the Rogues don't know the Flash's secret identity, Cisco and Caitlin have relocated the Flash headquarters into Caitlin's apartment, Eddie and Iris are getting married, and Barry is forced to take a job as 'Barry Allen, the totally non-superpowered, completely harmless bartender.' Then Leonard Snart buys the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dastardly Entrepreneurship of Captain Cold

Barry scrubbed hard at the stupid stain on the front of the counter, aggravated.  The rag in his hand was new, a blue and yellow checkered square that Lisa had dropped off with the other things she’d insisted on bringing by. ‘Lisa’, Barry was honest to god meaning _Lisa Snart_ since she’d shown up to the bar, flipped her hair, winked at Barry and Shawna behind the counter and immediately insisted they all be on a first name basis.  
  
Anyway, the stain was two inches long, with one large blotch and then a smaller blotch, very sticky in a permanent way, and it had been there since Barry started work at this bar three weeks ago and it was still there today, two days after Leonard Snart _bought_ the bar.  Barry turned around, to the sink, and opened the cabinet underneath.  There were cleaning supplies there, so he pulled out a bottle of all-purpose cleaner, sprayed his rag for the third time since his shift started two hours ago, and turned back around to target that stain.

Barry was behind the counter, underneath the television, with the heavier bottles of liquor, while Shawna was at the other end of the counter, beside the beer taps (Bud, Corona, and Sam Adams, the previous establishment wasn’t one for variety) serving a drink to Mick Rory.  She had a black apron tucked into her skinny jeans, a tank top, and a black jacket with the word “Peek-a-boo” stitched into her back, so every time she turned to face the corner stool where Lisa Snart was chatting away with her, Barry saw the word flash across his eyes and he felt yet another flash of anxiety.

Beneath the counter, and that damn stain, was Barry’s phone shoved between the shot glasses and rocks.  He could see the screen light up.

“See, the thing about shit like _art,_ y’know,” Shawna was saying to Lisa, “is where do you put that shit?”

“The resale value,” Lisa acknowledged with a nod. She made a ‘thumbs down’ and then mimicked the sound of an explosion.  

Mick Rory was sitting, hunched over, head resting on his forearms, beside his second beer and a bowl of peanuts, flicking a cigarette lighter on and off.  There were heavy circles under the man’s eyes, and Barry could have felt bad if Rory _hadn’t tried to set him on fire multiple times_.  
  
Leonard Snart was still in the back, talking to the previous owner about keeping the tables, chairs, pool table, and dart board.  And some guy Barry didn’t know, blonde hair, well built, was standing and playing pool with himself, not at all focused on Barry.  The bar wasn’t open, Barry had just been asked to come in early.  Barry was… highly… he sighed, pausing in his scrubbing of the unbudging stain.  Barry was _highly_ conflicted.  Half the previous staff had been fired, only the ones with previous police records or missing citizenship papers were still working and Barry had neither.  In all likelihood, Barry was about to be fired from his fourth job since the second particle accelerator explosion.  Which was good news because _Leonard Snart_ had just bought the bar.

Snart, aka, the guy who stole a priceless flute from the Thanksgiving Day Parade three days ago, and who _kidnapped_ both of Barry’s best friends, who was a _murderer,_ and a _thief._  And who _hated_ the Flash.  
  
Aka _Barry._

Barry did not want to work with Leonard Snart- _however._  He resumed scrubbing the stain, cast a mournful glance around the establishment of the dive bar, with its brown walls, scratched wooden floors, and overall Martin Scorcese film feel. He’d _liked_ working at this bar the last two weeks. Criminals in Central seemed to have an abundance of disposable income and while the moral ramifications of that were a bit iffy, a full tip jar was an amazing thing to see after a long shift.  And Barry liked mixing drinks, he was good at it—after all, it was all science.  

Losing his job at this bar meant he had to go back to being a dead weight in Caitlin’s life, basically, sitting in her guest room (“It’s your room now, Barry, stop calling it that”) filling out job applications until his eyes swam, hoping to get the call that someone somewhere needed the Flash.

Being a bartender had meant easily changeable hours, covering for other people when he had free time, and most of the time Barry didn’t have to talk with anyone at all- just stand there and get them drunk while they bragged about something.  More than once, things that Barry the Bartender heard at work helped the Flash catch some criminals; it wasn’t like working at the precinct but it was at least something.

The blond guy playing pool cursed loudly, as if he was losing (which was weird because he was literally playing against himself).  Barry almost laughed, but he could still see Mick, Lisa, and Shawna out of the corner of his eye.

He bent his head over the counter; shoulders hunched, and kept scrubbing the stain.  Barry wasn’t… completely afraid of the Rogues?  More ‘understandably cautious’.  Barry was strong enough to be confident he could get out of here alive, but his record with Snart and his crew didn’t make him eager for a rematch.

This stain was idiotic and Barry hated it.  

Barry cast another glance around the bar, Mick Rory was still not looking anywhere besides the lighter in his hand, and Lisa was contemplating Shawna’s jacket (Shawna apparently embroidered it herself, “Surgeons hands,” Shawna said, while laughing), and the man losing to himself in pool still was focused on… whatever that was.  Barry kept one hand on the rag, leaned over the counter, reached his left hand toward his phone, and he had just clicked in the password to unlock (“5 6 5 2”), the screen flashed up with a barrage of messages from Cisco but before Barry could look, he saw a piece of paper slide onto the counter with his name on it.

Not just his name, his resume.  Barry looked up, eyes wide, and Leonard Snart was casually moving to sit in a stool in front of him.  Snart was wearing a dark blue jacket, a grey t-shirt, which Barry thought was weird because somehow he imagined the man wearing that parka all the time (which would be ridiculous) and… fucking close.  Barry dropped the phone, heard a glass clink, and winced.

Snart was holding a binder full of papers, tapped them on the counter, and without looking up said, “You can check your phone, kid, you’re not working right now.”

Barry instantly felt the blood drain from his face, because _Leonard Snart was his boss_ and he hated every moment that had led up to this moment.  What the hell was wrong with his life, because it seemed like someone ‘up there’ had it out for Barry in a big way.

Snart’s eyes, steely blue, flickered up to meet Barry’s.  “Not checking your phone.”  It sounded like a statement, but should have been a question.

Barry swallowed and shook his head.

“Okay,” Snart leaned back, adjusted his jacket, and then sat with his elbows on the counter.  He looked at Barry with such a focused look that for a moment Barry was certain Snart _knew_ but then all he said was, “White Russian.  Cold.”

Oh.  A drink.  Lowball vodka drink; coffee liqueur and cream.  Easy enough.  Barry grabbed bottles for it, found the right vodka behind him without trouble since he had been working in the same bar for a few weeks, and made the drink… moving his hands slowly on purpose.

“Really, Lenny?” Lisa said loudly from the other end of the bar, “Drinking at 5 p.m.?”

“Coffee.  Cream,” Snart answered with a frown, “it’s hardly even alcohol.”

“It’s 5 p.m.,” Lisa repeated, even louder as if to spite him.

“Will you let me do my job, sis?” Snart said.  He didn’t wait for a reply.  Barry was just putting ice cubes (as many as he could fit in the glass) into the drink.  

Feeling like he was under a spotlight, Barry slid the glass two inches across the counter to Len’s waiting hand, let the man take a drink, and anticipated feedback that didn’t come.

Snart just leaned over Barry’s resume on the counter. “So…” He dragged the word as he traced his finger down the first page, “High School honor roll, all four years, and graduated from a local university, chemistry, forensic, very jumbled interests all down the line but impressive schooling, and working in a coffee shop and later a science museum as a tour guide, and your resume is missing the period of time you worked for the Central City Police,” Snart shrugged as Barry’s eyes widened, “that’s understandable.  You seem to have had a tumultuous relationship with that department.  Fill me in?”

Barry couldn’t believe Snart wasn’t just shooting him right then and there.  “I…” Barry started to say, lost his voice, had to cough and start over.

Snart spoke before he could finish.  “Been drinking?”

Barry shook his head immediately.  “No, I don’t.”

Snart looked surprised.  “You don’t drink?”

Barry nodded.  “So uh… I got the job through a family friend-”

Snart pulled out his binder, opened up to a tabbed page, and read aloud, “Detective Joe West?”  He looked at Barry casually and added, “Don’t be surprised.  I order background checks on anyone I come in contact with.  No one sees this binder besides me.”

_Oh man._  This was an interview.  Barry had no idea how thorough the background checks Snart did were, but he was sure the binder was full of things he’d never want Snart to know.  Barry should never have listened to Cisco. He should have run out of the bar as soon as Snart showed up the first day, not stuck around until Snart actually _became his boss_.

Barry nodded again, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and then rubbed the back of his neck.  “I was in a coma,” Barry said.

Snart didn’t look surprised at all, so the coma must have come up in the background check.  “What was that like?” He asked, nonchalant.

Barry frowned.  “I don’t remember.”

“Fair,” Snart said, “you were able to jump right back into work?”

“Disability benefits, having a family member who worked in the department…” Barry said, “but uh… the incident with that wormhole that opened up in the middle of the city?”  Snart didn’t say anything, so Barry jumped in with the cover story he, and everyone he knew, had memorized, “I hit my head, got a really bad concussion. Was hospitalized for two weeks and recovering after that.  The CCPD cut their losses and let me go; they were making cuts anyways so it just made sense to get rid of the guy who didn’t work nearly an entire year.”

“Plan on getting into more comas?” Snart asked.

Barry blinked.  “Wh… I… no?”

“Okay,” Snart said, and then he… smiled.  Which was weird.  Because Snart had smiled before, so when he did Barry suddenly remembered being on a hijacked train chasing the man in a parka who’d stolen a diamond which… this ‘secret identity’ thing was giving Barry whiplash.

“Is there a reason you haven’t fired me?” Barry said, not thinking, the moment the words were out he instantly regretted them.

Snart glanced in his binder.  “According to matters of record, your father is imprisoned for murder and according to sources, you frequently visit and are on good terms.”

_Oh_. That was why Barry was still staying when all the people without police records had been cut.  “Considering I used to work with the CCPD…” Barry started, and let the sentence hang.

Snart took a second drink.  “Doesn’t seem like they treated you very well,” he said casually.

That was sort of true.  Sort of not.  Barry hadn’t exactly been the most… punctual employee since he’d become the Flash, being fired had not been an unexpected turn of events.  “I guess,” Barry said.

“The question is,” Snart said, holding the drink and leaning forward, “would you like to continue employment with this establishment?”

“I- well yeah- I mean, yes,” he tried to say it decisively but he knew he just sounded awkward.

“Give it some thought,” Snart said, eyes staring straight into Barry’s which sent shivers down Barry’s back.  “If you’re gunna work here, you’ll be protected by us of course, but the Rogues do attract enemies.  You have to be comfortable with the possibility of a pissing match breaking out at any point.  And if you are at any point questioned by the police, and if you very stupidly tell the badges what they want to hear, my buddy Mick spent his early career making examples of people who talked too much to cops.”  Snart’s finger tapped his glass.  “I’m sorry to say that that’s a threat, but this is the line of work I’m in.”

“So…” Barry frowned at Snart, and then shoved all misgivings to the back of his mind and asked, “why did you buy the bar?”

Snart stared at him, forehead furrowed in a frown, and didn’t answer that question.  Instead he reached out for Barry’s resume again.  “Same phone number?”

“Yeah,” Barry said.

“Same address and email?”

“Yes.”

“The address you listed is registered to a Doctor Caitlin Snow,” Snart said slowly, “very intelligent woman.  Used to work with STAR Labs and now is an adjunct professor of the Missouri University of Medicine located here in Central City.”

This was the point where Barry was sure he was going to die; Snart knew about Caitlin, Snart had met Caitlin before.  And Snart now knew everything about Barry, all it would take was the logical leap from Barry Allen to Caitlin and Cisco’s association with the Flash to make everything too clear- and this was a bad idea. Barry should never have gone along with this; it wasn’t like vice, he wasn’t undercover, the name _Barry Allen_ was very clearly written on that resume.  

This was the stupidest plan Barry had ever had.

Snart was looking at Barry’s face, blank expression, which was definitely freaking Barry out.  “She’s legally a widow, according to records her husband has passed.  You friends with her?”

“Yes,” Barry said, hands feeling clammy, “and no.  I live with her.  She’s my doctor.”

Snart frowned.  “You live with your doctor?”

“I was treated by STAR Labs… after the particle accelerator explosion,” _oh god, stop talking,_ “Caitlin was in charge of my treatment.  I kept having seizures.  I…” _I am so bad at lying, he’s going to see through this_ , “was struck by lightning.  Some sort of brain uh… neuron firing lapse between the amygdala and hippocampus, it’s experimental and Caitlin thinks she needs to…” Barry rubbed the sides of his face, glanced over at Mick Rory and Lisa – they were _looking_ at him, “monitor my treatment.  Lightning psychosis.”  

Barry was about to make a run for it, then Snart reached forward and suddenly _Captain Cold_ ’s hand was on Barry’s wrist and Snart was looking at Barry with… _sympathy._   _He bought it_ , Barry realized completely shocked, _Snart actually bought it_.

“If you have any troubles at work-” Snart started to say.

“I’m fine,” Barry insisted.

Snart’s thumb brushed against the back of Barry’s hand, obviously meant to be comforting.  “We take care of our own here,” Snart promised.

_This is weird_ , Barry thought.

“Has Caitlin told you anything?” Snart asked.

_About the time you kidnapped her, rigged her to an exploding bomb, and Mick Rory threatened to burn her just so you could set a trap for the Flash?_ Barry remembered.  “About what?” He said.  Snart seemed to accept that answer, so Barry mentally congratulated himself.

“Are you and the Doctor close?” Snart asked.

“She’s my physician,” Barry said.  “Why are you asking questions about her?”

From behind him, Barry could hear Lisa Snart slam her hand on the counter, and then she very loudly asked Shawna about the telescope clipped to Shawna’s belt.

Snart pulled his hand away from Barry, coughed into his hand, and then pulled Barry’s resume back into his binder.  “I’ll send you an email with the new hours we have available after I organize it,” Snart said with a tone in his voice indicating the conversation was over, “go in the back, bring out one or two of the boxes Lisa dropped off, then you can head on out.”

Barry… passed.  Somehow he’d made it past Snart’s security test and for a moment Barry was actually offended by that, then he remembered to count himself lucky and just go with it.

* * *

As the bartender stepped out the door, Lisa waited until the swinging screech of rusted hinges finished, and then she pounced. Len watched her the entire time, the way her eyes trailed after the bartender, the thin line of disapproval that was her mouth.  

James was still playing himself in pool, everything peaceful enough that Len knew an open argument would get everyone's attention. Lisa stood up, Len gathered his binder, and quickly walked back into the storage room knowing she would follow.

True to prediction, just as Len was stepping over the boxes at the door, careful not to spill the drink in his hand, Lisa opened the door behind him with a bang. She looked furious.

Len took a slow drink, leaned against a shelf filled with back-stock alcohol and peanuts, and waited for her to start.

"I told you _not_ to hire that one!" She said, eyes flashing.

"I decided," Len said, "not to follow your advice in this case."  He set the drink down on the shelf beside him. Thought better, then raised it to his mouth again.

"He worked for the CCPD," Lisa reminded.

"He was fired for a disability," Len said casually.

"He lives with the _very same_ Doctor Snow that you and Mick _kidnapped,"_ Lisa snarled. She crossed her arms, her black boot tapping loudly on the cement floor.

"She's his physician."

Lisa raised her eyebrow, frowning. "He has a disability _and_ lives with his doctor?"

Len took another drink and looked at the binder in his hands so he didn't have to look at her.

"So he's a former badge who can't even live on his own," Lisa said angrily, "so he won't even be a good _employee._ I _recommended_ you fire him with the rest and for some reason you, Mr. I Randomly Decided Today That I Want To Buy A Bar, decide to disregard _everything_ and keep him on staff."

Len shrugged. It was obvious Lisa was putting the pieces together and it was only going to be a matter of time before she knew what Len was thinking. Sometimes it was a nightmare to work with his sister.

"He'll work the late night shift then. So he's not around when the Rogues are having meetings?" Lisa asked.

Len sighed. "I-"

"This close," Lisa said. She stepped forward and raised her had, indicating to a miniscule space between her thumb and index finger. "I am _this close_ to strangling you and just setting up a Grindr account."

"No," Len said with scorn, "if you fucking do that again I'll-"

"You seriously bought this bar just to see this guy?" Lisa yelled, exasperated, "You're such an _idiot."_

"Remember what I said about undermining my authority?" Len warned.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you," Lisa said to the ceiling.

"For the record, I was already considering buying a bar since the Flash showed up to _Saints_ in full costume," Len said, "and nothing keeps people happier than free drinks, and people like these Rogues need to feel happy."

"But the only reason it is this _specific_ bar is because that _specific_ brunette works here?" Lisa asked.

Len sighed. That was enough of an answer for Lisa, who was shaking her head in disapproval.

Then, initial rage apparently dealt with, Lisa stepped beside Len and leaned on the same shelves beside him. Looking ahead, and not at him, which Len did appreciate. She hooked her arm in Len's, holding him next to her, and rested her cheek on Len's shoulder. It was her attempt to be 'cute' so that Len would do what she wanted... which Len consistently fell for.

It was annoying how predictable and easy he was when Lisa was involved.

"At least he's 24," Lisa said, recalling the information she'd come up in her background check, "he looks pretty young."

Len didn't say anything to that. He didn't like the bartender because he looked _young-_

"Len, you realize this was a bad plan? You can't flirt with your employees," Lisa told him.

Len pressed the glass in his hand to his forehead.

"You are the smartest idiot in the world," Lisa said, full of affection. "I will fix this for you."

"Don't meddle," Len said.

"I will meddle," Lisa promised, "because your beautiful mind shuts off like a switch when it comes to romance and I'm really bored with being the only sibling with a date for family dinners."

"I've brought Mick," Len grumbled.

"Mick doesn't count and you know it."

"I guess," Len frowned at the glass above his head, "there's nothing I can really stay to stop you."

"I always do what I want, Lenny," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet, "and what I want is what is best for you.  No promises on the brunette bartender-"

Len grimaced.

"-but," she continued, "Thanksgiving was a bore. I'll get you a date by Christmas."

Len really wished he wasn't actually grateful for her help. He just grunted in reply.

Lisa grabbed the white Russian out of his hands. "No more alcohol until 8, you gruff old drunk," she cooed.

"You are not going to control my drinking," Len insisted.

"Do you think you'll seduce the sexy young bartender by being a drunk mess? Trust me," she said, planting a kiss on Len's cheek.  "Also trust me on the wallpaper, because I have a theme going to match the napkins."


	2. Friends Aren’t Made to be Wasted

_“Stay focused, don’t waver, look ahead, find your place.”_ Wise words from a speedster in a tin hat, words Barry focused on intently until he was nearly blinded by the understanding. Running through a sea of cosmic power was just like traveling through the woods, there had to be a focal point or else twists and turns would set you off in a completely different direction.

When Barry ran through that paradox of a wormhole two months ago, he had struggled to hold on to that advice.  A ll around him he saw imagines, the past, the future, things he recognized and things he didn’t, things that should be reality and that shouldn’t, a world too blue, a world on fire, black days and bright nights, people he loved looking like they shouldn’t and him loving people he’d never met.   _Stay focused. Find your timeline._

Barry got _fairly_ close.  He knew when he stepped out that it was wrong.  He saw Eddie standing tall and alive, felt Joe’s arms wrapped around him and Cisco worrying about Eobard escaping into the future, but there was destruction all around him- Barry was tired, and how selfish could it be for him to just take the timeline where everyone… _almost_ everyone, lives?

There were a couple other changes.  Papa Johns didn’t have the right mushroom topping anymore, and Barry was sure Trader Joes had never had a location by Caitlin’s apartment and that really bumped up the traffic, but there were plenty of positives in addition to Eddie being alive. Like, the fact that Captain Cold didn’t know Barry’s identity.

This moment, however, was the first that Barry actually regretted not attempting to jump into the wormhole again, because Eddie’s accusing look was painful to stand in front of.  

Barry, Cisco, and Caitlin had called Eddie and Iris over to help them move in some of the boxes and ‘misplaced’ technology from the sale of STAR Labs into Caitlin’s apartment.  A new company run by a Dr. Elias bought STAR Labs and all the intellectual property, but set off its plan for renewal by ‘starting new’.  Caitlin had had to move the entire contents of her living room, besides the couch and tv, into a storage to fit what had now become the new hub of all Flash activities.  It was not very pleasant for Barry to stand in the middle of what used to be an impeccably tasteful and decorated room, now filled with boxes upon boxes of things all for his own benefit.

It got worse; Barry now lived in Caitlin’s guest room.  So he was the worst type of a freeloader, the kind that completely changed how an apartment looked and that enough made Barry uncomfortable.

Inviting Eddie and Iris was more of a gesture on their part, inviting the two into the Team Flash activities now that both Eddie and Iris knew about the secret identity.  Cisco had ordered pizza, Caitlin had fired up an espresso machine, there was a football game playing on the tv that was shoved haphazardly into the corner of Caitlin’s living room and barely visible from the couch, and Barry unpacked most of the boxed very quickly though the rest Caitlin and Cisco wanted to micromanage into place.  

Barry _could_ have stayed at Joe’s place for forever, but Caitlin had been the one insisting he didn’t.  After the wormhole, she’d somehow managed to wrangle Barry into a conversation about his unrequited love for Iris, brought up the time they’d gone to Karaoke, and insisted that Barry move in to her apartment.  “A win-win,” Caitlin had insisted, “I need someone to keep me company when Ronnie is gone, and you need a place to live where you can go out all night and not worry about Joe.”

And that was even _worse;_ Barry’s love life was so miserably stagnant and convoluted that his friends had to take pity and put him under their wing.  Barry had refused, insisted he was fine.  Then three weeks ago, Eddie and Iris announced they were engaged and Barry reconsidered. Maybe Caitlin’s apartment _was_ the best choice.

And now, Barry’d eaten two pizzas by himself and had downed two liters of Diet Cherry Coke (and made a mental note to buy his _own_ soda once his next paycheck came in) when Eddie had pulled Barry aside to talk.

It felt a little weird standing in Caitlin’s guest room, surrounded by Barry’s poorly unpacked things, with Eddie looking at Barry with some weird pitiful, apologetic, and firm look.  Barry felt like when he was a kid being called down to a principal’s office to be sent away to therapy. He _almost_ regretted not going back into the wormhole. But only _almost._  Barry wasn’t heartless enough to _actually_ want that.

“I know it’s been a bit of a rough time,” Eddie said slowly, “but a couple months have passed since the uh… Harrison Wells disaster and the wormhole and I think we should talk.”  

“You mean Eobard Thawne?” Barry asked.  He frowned, looked around the room, and then sat down on the edge of his bed.  

Eddie followed, sitting right next to Barry and a little too close for comfort.  “You know what I mean.”

Barry dropped the two-liter in his hands onto the floor and scooted over to the edge far away from Eddie.  “Congratulations on the wedding,” Barry said, looking straight at the wall, “when did you propose?”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs and his head on clenched fists.  “Do you remember when I punched you?”

Barry grimaced.  “Yeah?”

“There’s something about that we never really talked about, since I found out you were the Flash,” Eddie said.

Barry waited for Eddie to say something.  Eddie didn’t.  “And?”

“It’s just that-” Eddie sighed.  “This isn’t easy to say.  I think you’re a really good person, Barry, and I like you a lot.  And Iris lo- likes you too.  But things are…” Eddie took a deep breath while Barry felt blood draining from his face.  “You can’t just make up mental illnesses.”

Barry blinked.  “How did you hear about that?” He asked, surprised.

Eddie frowned.  “Because that’s what you said.”

Barry looked at him, confused.  “I haven’t told anyone about that,” he said, “I mean… I didn’t really mean to say it to Snart, it just-”

“Snart?” Eddie shook his head, “I…what? No, Barry, I’m talking about when you had Caitlin lie to us and tell us you had a mental disorder.”

 _Oh_ , Barry thought.  “Oh,” Barry said.  Right. _‘Lightning psychosis’_ became an excuse when Barry had thought Iris would never learn the truth.

Eddie sighed, again.  “I mean, I can understand where…I know that when you came out of the coma, you and Iris weren’t as close as you used to be.  And it can be a shock to have someone move on so quickly when for you time was still-”

“I’m really sorry about that,” Barry said, rushed and not wanting to continue the conversation, “I couldn’t really explain what was going on-”

“Well, I think I know what happened,” Eddie said.

“It was months ago, Eddie,” Barry reminded him.

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you about this,” Eddie said.  “Please hear me out.”

Barry grimaced.  Taking a slow, deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, he nodded.  “Okay.”

Eddie smiled.  “Thank you,” he said, clapping his hand on Barry’s shoulder in a friendly gesture.  It only lasted for a moment before he was back to leaning forward.  “I know there was a lot going on that day, and that you never really had the chance to move on from Iris.  It sort of came as a shock.”

Barry didn’t really want to talk about this.  Not to Eddie, of all people, but he stayed, because there wasn’t exactly any avoiding this.

“And I want you to know that I don’t blame you,” Eddie said, “and obviously things were bad that day so you went to Iris.  Because to you it hadn’t really clicked in that Iris was with me, I mean, I know you’re not a bad person.”

Eddie was giving Barry a lot of credit, Barry realized, feeling guilty.

“I know that reaching out to Iris makes sense,” Eddie said with sympathy, “and I understand why.  Iris-”

“Maybe you and I shouldn’t talk about Iris like that?” Barry asked.

Eddie paused, and then gave Barry a nod.  “You understand?”

“You’re engaged,” Barry said, and the words came out bitter.  He sounded angrier than he intended, and the bite of those words hung in the air for a moment.  Barry cringed at the sound of his own voice.

“Because we both want you in the wedding,” Eddie started to say.  

Cisco’s voice interrupted, yelling out from the kitchen, “Are we out of hot wings?!”

Barry jumped at that.  “I can get some!” He announced, and then ran out of that bedroom in a flash without a single look back.

* * *

Barry knocked on the door to the bar, still closed at this time, and peered in through the stained windows trying to see if anyone was near.  It didn’t help, the dust obscured anyone on the other side so when the door opened Barry was completely taken aback.

Shawna Baez, her Peekaboo jacket around her waist with a crop top with a winking smiley face on it, had none of that happy careless expression of her shirt.  She glared at Barry.  For a moment, Barry was convinced all the Rogues had found out his identity.  Then Shawna taped her finger to her empty wrist and growled, “You’re twenty minutes _late.”_

“I… traffic,” Barry said, awkward.

Shawna rolled her eyes.  She turned around and said over her shoulder, “If we open the bar together, I don’t want to be stuck getting ready all by myself.  Be on _time.”_  Then, quick as a… a wink, Shawna disappeared in a plume of black dust that reappeared behind the counter of the bar.  She picked up a wet rag and continued cleaning the counter.

Barry swallowed, wondered for the thirtieth time if a simple plaid shirt and dark jeans looked tough and professional enough for bartending at a Rogue hideout, and stepped into the bar.  Normal speed.  Then he froze, because _Mark Mardon_ was standing by the pool table.

The deadly, only surviving member of the Mardon brothers was wearing casual, professional dresspants and shirt, and leaned against the pool table with a grin.  His windswept hair was pulled back by gel, apparently, and tucked behind his ears.  “But Boo,” Mark said, “not everyone can jump place to place like you can.”

“Not everyone has a giant douchey weather rod in their ass like you, either,” Shawna snapped at him.

Mark blew her a kiss.  Barry hunched his shoulders and made his way over to his end of the bar.  He had no idea if Mark Mardon would recognize him.  “Oh Shawna,” Mark said, grinning bright in anticipation of his joke, “if you’re into pegging I think you’d be better flirting with Hartley.”

Shawna snorted.  “You’re pretty mistaken if you think I’m flirting with _you,”_ she countered.

Barry, busy hiding his phone between old-fashioned glasses, jumped up at Hartley’s name.  “You know Hartley _Rathaway?”_ He said, eyes widening.  Realizing what he’d said, Barry’s cheeks started to burn because dead giveaway, _shit,_ what was _wrong with him_ -

“Oh yeah!” Shawna leaned over the counter, grabbed a handful of peanuts, and nodded to Mark, “You got Cold’s memo, right?  This guy knows Doctor Snow.”

Mark looked at Barry, sizing him up.  “The doctor you almost killed?”

“Yea,” Shawna nodded.  Chewing a mouthful of peanuts, she added, “You go by Bart?”

“Barry?” Barry said, nervous.

“It’s okay,” Shawna said to him, suddenly… sympathetic? “We all got shit deals with that explosion gig.  I mean, you _obviously_ ended up with the worst of it like Hartley, but Mark and my powers _kinda_ ended up shoving us into raw deals too.”

Mark jumped up onto the pool table and leaned forward, hunching over with interest while he studied Barry.  “Barry,” he said, “did you uh… notice anything… different about yourself after the particle explosion?”

Mark Mardon was suddenly hit with a cloth rag.  Shawna glared at him.  “Mark!” She chided, “Didn’t you read Cold’s memo?”

“He sends out like six memos a day!” Mark defended.

“They’re short and easy to read, that’s the _point_ of a memo,” Shawna said.

“I’m a little busy trying to plan some _actual_ damn jobs, you know,” Mark snapped back at her.

Barry suddenly had the feeling he was hearing an old and rehearsed argument.  He slouched down, fixed his area of the bar as quickly as he could without relying on his speedster abilities, and then ducked down to look at his phone.

“What I do is _very useful_ to this team too!”

“Yeah, but _I’m_ the one getting shot at and fighting the Flash!”

“Which you wouldn’t be able to _do_ if I wasn’t stitching you guys up whenever you come back!”

“Did you miss the part where I’m being _shot at_ and _fighting the Flash_!”

Barry had a message from Iris.   _‘Missed talking to you last night. Want to talk soon?’_ was the first message, followed by _‘Big changes.’_  Barry remembered when Iris would send messages full of emoji’s and text speak, but ever since her job as a journalist Iris had gone so far as to write out the word ‘you’, probably a symptom of her writing notes for her job on her phone.  

Barry hadn’t said much to Iris the night before. His stomach clenched looking at the message, remembering the pangs of embarrassment and guilt from his talk with Eddie.

“Hello?! I have done all that too! It’s not that impressive!”

“I can summon tornados with my mind!”

“You also cry when it rains!”

“It’s a side effect!”

 _“Sneezing_ is a side effect, that’s called being a wimpy ass!”

Barry didn’t answer Iris’ messages, even though he knew his phone would send her a read receipt to let her know he’d seen it.  He didn’t know if that was the most tactful way to avoid her but the idea of actually writing something, or coming up with a lie, was painful and uncomfortable.  

Being away from Iris didn’t feel… right.  Nothing felt right without her around.  There had hardly been days they’d spent apart since they were eleven, and there… Barry was stuck with the horrible, sinking feeling that he’d ruined everything between him and his best friend.  A lot of it was still… painful. Barry had believed more than anything that Iris and him were _meant_ to be together, and it wasn’t a blind belief, the whole _universe_ seemed to confirm that. But obviously if Barry _wanted_ his best friend back he had to be supportive or her and her _fiancé._  

So he shoved the phone back behind the glass and grimaced while listening to Shawna Baez and Mark Mardon bickering like they were on the set of Cheers and not superpowered criminals.  

Barry had managed to ease up a bit around Mark Mardon, not jumping at every slightly-louder-than-average noise, when Mick Rory walked into the room from the back office, sleeves rolled up and a cigarette bud burning in his mouth.  His scars were clearly visible, red and angry, and the cigarette wafted smoke through the room that Barry almost got angry over- until he remembered that whole super healing bit, so honestly Mick smoking wasn’t going to affect _Barry’s_ lungs in any capacity.

“Want something to drink?” Barry asked.  

Mick Rory slapped two gloves down on the counter and grumbled, sitting on a stool and leaning forward.  He nodded.  “Beer,” he said.

That was Shawna’s deal. Barry handled the mixed drinks.

“I’m getting you Sam Adam’s summer brew,” Shawna told Mick, “you gunna put that light out?”

Mick didn’t have any objections. He snorted, took a last drag of the cigarette and then snuffed it out in one of the empty peanut bowls.  “Can one a’ ya turn on the news?” Mick asked.  He pointed to the box tv set hanging up right over Barry’s head.

Barry shrugged. He opened the drawer behind him, looking for that box that said batteries because he could have _sworn_ the remote was in there and… gotcha.  Barry pulled it out, checked the batteries, and then turned the tv on.  

Mark sat up at the counter next to Mick.  “Did Cold tell you anything else about the museum job?”

Barry tried to pretend like he was concentrating on finding a good channel, not on the conversation behind him.  The tv had subtitles on and volume that was hard to hear even at full capacity.  It seemed to just have local, free stations.  

“Nah,” Mick grumbled, “’was workin’ on the stove.”

“Stove?” Shawna asked as she gave Mick his beer.

Mick stared, transfixed at the tv.  “I wanna make onion rings,” he said for an explanation.

Barry frowned.  “Can’t you just use your gun?” He said without thinking.   _Shit,_ he shouldn’t have said that.  Barry was supposed to be an unheard, background figure not the loudmouth bartender that asked too many questions and-

“Keeps burnin’ em too crispy,” Mick replied.

Shawna chuckled.  “Is there anything you _haven’t_ tried to light on fire with that gun of yours?”

“I’h’ve seen ya teleport to win at darts, don’ throw stones,” Mick joked.

Shawna laughed out loud at that, and Mark glared so hard Barry almost heard thunder.  “ _No manches_ ,” Mark Mardon grumbled under his breath before leaving to go back to playing pool by himself.

“Stop!” Mick said suddenly.

Barry froze, lightning jumping to his side, reading to run away in an instant-

“The _Heat,”_ Mick said with excitement.  

 _Oh,_ Barry realized.   _Basketball teams._

“You can’t honestly be rooting for _Miami,”_ Shawna chided. “You ever gone to any Miners games?”

Okay, the Central City Miners, Barry was at least slightly familiar with _them._  That was the local team though, the games they played primarily attended by residents of Central City, which never got as much traction as professional teams.

Mick’s eyes didn’t leave the tv screen while he drank.  “Who’da’you root for then?”

“The Gotham Knights,” Shawna said with a hand on her hip, “like a _sane_ person.”

“Ya live in Missouri,” Mick grumbled.

“I live across the bridge in Keystone,” Shawna corrected, “that’s Kansas.”

“Potatoes,” Mick said, inexplicably.  And then shouted when something or another happened at the basketball court, prompting a bunch of seven foot men to yell and one to shoot amicably from an arbitrary line drawn several yards from the basket and yeah, Barry didn’t know much about basketball.

“So,” Barry said after a few moments where the only sound came from the clacking of the pool table and Shawna and Mick reacting to some basketball play that Barry couldn’t see, “are we ever going to get any actual customers coming in?”

“Ask Cold,” Shawna answered.

 _Yeah,_ Barry thought, grimacing, _not if I can help i_ t.  The less interaction he had with Captain Cold, the better.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mardon brothers are Latino in New 52 which is something I choose to write in when I write Mark, because comics always need diversity and why not. Anyways, Mark mumbles "No manches" to himself, which (this explanation is heavily simplified) is an expression that literally translates to "Do not stain", but which is something like an expression of disbelief or "You've got to be kidding me."


	3. Memos and Cigarettes

It wasn’t until it was 2am and Barry was recounting--to an equally tired Caitlin who had demanded to be woken up when Barry made it home and debriefed on ‘Operation: Undercover Bartender’ (Cisco was working on a better name)--that Barry realized he had no idea what was in that _‘memo’_ that Captain Cold had apparently sent to all the Rogues.

Caitlin grabbed his phone, hastily searching through his messages.  “Seriously, you haven’t received _any_ memo? Why would he send it to the others and not you?”

“I don’t know,” Barry said.  It was _two_ in the _morning._

“You need to be getting those memos,” Caitlin said.

“M’ mean,” Barry mumbled, attempting to avoid a yawn and failing, “I got relevant stuff.  My hours.  Some dude named Sam who’s banned.  Met Mark Mardon and he didn’t try to kill me.”

“Mardon?” Caitlin asked.

How was she so coherent at 2am?   _Barry_ was the one who could use his superspeed to sleep in as many hours as he wanted, _Caitlin_ was getting up at 6am to make her way to her university job every day and spending her hours off helping the Flash, she had to have some magical reserves of energy somewhere. “Mardon,” Barry said.  His eyes lazily trailed passed her, Caitlin slid his phone back after she finished looking through his emails from Captain Cold, and his eyes fixed on the empty coffeepot.   _Hello, gorgeous,_ Barry thought to himself.

“What’s Mardon doing there?”  

Coffee had been the largest staple of Barry’s life for a ridiculous amount of time.  In college it was just a need-based thing, but then once Iris was working at Jitters and Barry instantly found himself free of college and with a high-stress forensic scientist job at the illustrious CCPD (with no previous work experience, and Barry had no doubts in his mind that Joe was the sole reason he’d _had_ that job considering _so many_ factors) coffee.  Everywhere.  All the time.  At one point, Barry’d had photos of coffee on his phone…

But that had also been when Iris was exploring with making foam images in lattes and had given Barry one with a love heart and… _right._  That was why that image was his phone background. That was… kind of pathetic, Barry realized with a sinking heart.

“Barry?” Caitlin asked.

“Mardon,” Barry jerked his eyes away from the coffee pot and back to his friend, “Snart sort of seems like he’s assembling a gang, or alliance of people.  Mardon and Shawna Baez were there and flirting I guess, we know about Mick Rory and Lisa.  There was another guy but I didn’t recognize him.”

“What did he look like?” Caitlin asked, leaning forward.

Barry stared at her, feeling a bit like he wanted to use his superspeed to run to the couch and take a 5 minute/5 hour nap.  “Fluffy.  White.  Made ‘baa’ing noises.”

Caitlin blinked.  “Huh?”

“A sheep,” Barry said, knowing he wasn’t making sense, “one. Two.  Three.  Can we talk in the morning about it?”

“Oh,” Caitlin glanced up past Barry.  Barry looked where she was, saw she was looking at the clock on the wall that was a wedding gift.  “Oh, of course.  It’s late.”

“I’ll get you breakfast from anywhere you want.  Even places in Keystone,” Barry said.  He could see the disappointment on Caitlin’s face, just didn’t understand why.

“Okay,” Caitlin stood up, turning away from Barry quickly.  “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Cait,” Barry said, stopping her. The clock making him remember what he’d forgotten to ask her before she had him move in.  “You’re sure you’re fine with me moving in?”

Caitlin’s eyes widened and she looked at him, turning sharp enough for her hair to bounce.  “What?  Wh- of course. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Barry said, feeling exhaustion making the bones in his hands brittle and his eyes felt like… like tired eyes. Because god.  Tired.  He was so tired.  “Okay.”

Maybe that was why Caitlin had let Barry move in with him.  That day, everyone else triumphed over Eobard, rejoiced in their quick thinking, but Barry and Caitlin were grieving.  Caitlin, the death of Ronnie, who died on their _wedding day_ only weeks after she’d learned he was alive again, and Barry mourned… everything.  Losing an Eddie who he could never explain.  Losing the life he was supposed to have, instead entering this one.  Losing his mother, only after he’d just reclaimed hope in getting her back again.  He and Caitlin had found a morbid companion in their grief.

Perks of superpowers: it was less than 20 seconds by the time he brushed his teeth, flossed, combed his hair, put on pajamas, and fell into bed. Barry was asleep in almost three seconds after that.

* * *

He woke up an hour later to use the restroom, stared at his face in the mirror and thought, _What kind of boss is Leonard Snart anyway?  How many memos?  Is this supervillain ‘the Office’?_ and then he left the thought at that and fell back asleep.

He had a weird dream at 7:59 am where he was Jim, Iris was Pam, and Caitlin was there and kept trying to make him go into Snart’s office to talk about memos.  Then he might have fallen screaming into memos while Jay Gerrick yelled at him for being in the wrong timeline.  It ended with him dreaming about piles and piles of blueberry waffles.

* * *

Today, that blonde haired man from the first day was there again. Barry still didn’t recognize him from _anywhere,_ no matter how hard he tried to remember possible criminals from CCPD work that would make Snart interested.  Mick Rory was still there, he was still apparently working on the cooking equipment behind the bar but he kept coming back to stand directly in front of Barry and stare up at the television to look at the basketball game’s score.  

Halfway through his shift, five broad-shouldered men in leather biker jackets came in, all ordered beers and attempted to flirt with Shawna, and then went over to fool around with the dart board. Eventually they played pool with the blonde haired man, made some bets, and someone in the group lost big time, which made him pissed enough that he left with his friends.  

_Actual customers_ though, which was a bonus. Barry’d been a bit afraid he’d be stuck relying on his hourly wage.  Shawna put the tips, which were generous, almost thirty dollars, into the shared tip jar without any hesitation even though she did all the work for it.  

Nothing happened for a while, then Shawna pulled out a pad to draw on and a pencil and she made a tic-tac-toe board on it.  They were seven rounds into it (Barry 5, Shawna 1, Draw 1) when Leonard Snart finally came in the door.  

He was holding a helmet under one arm, wearing a leather jacket zipped up to his neck.  The cold gun was holstered on his hip and swung as he walked, and Barry instantly felt a shiver run down his back at the sight of the glowing light blue light- he almost reached for the part of his stomach that had been shot with that cold gun before.

Snart’s eyes were narrowed, angry, his boots stomped on the ground and he smelled heavily like gasoline and smoke.  He kept walking closer, toward Barry, and Barry stared at him, frozen in place somehow because Snart was _staring right at him_ , steely blue eyes practically glaring a hole into Barry’s head.

He sat down right in front of Barry.  Zipping off his jacket.  “Still makin’ white Russians?” He asked, voice low and grumbling.  

He really, really heavily smelled like gasoline.  Barry was very much hoping that had nothing to do with some… giant ice ray of death he’d have to dodge later as the Flash.  “ Of course,” Barry said.

Snart nodded, and grunted, and reached to his back pocket while Barry was pulling out the cup.  Barry had barely started making the drink when Snart dropped two fifty dollar bills into the tip jar.   _Nice,_ Barry thought, distracted by that for a moment, because _sweet._  That meant Barry was halfway to affording those long-lasting, inov-8 running shoes that supposedly ultramarathoners wore.  Barry finished the drink and slid it over the counter to Snart.

“I was wonder-” Barry started to say, when Lisa banged open the door to the supply room.  She didn’t have her gun, but looked angry for some reason.  She walked straight over to Snart, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him without saying anything.

Snart pretended to ignore her.  Barry pretended to be utterly fascinated with wiping off the counter stain.  

Lisa cleared her throat, and finally Snart looked at her, eyes slow and matching her glare.  He took a drink, which made Lisa tap her foot on the floor so loudly even Shawna looked over.   _“Leonard,”_ Lisa growled.

To Barry’s complete surprise, Snart looked at him and said, “You have a sister?”

Barry blinked.  “Uh… no,” he said.  “My best friend is a girl though, uh, we grew up together.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Snart said.

Lisa stomped her foot again, a harsh _bang_ that rang through the room.  She didn’t say anything after that, moved over to the pool table to grab a stick and barge in on the blonde haired man’s game.  She didn’t so much as look up at Snart after, but Barry had the suspicion she was watching him out of her peripheral vision.

“Can I ask what that’s about?” Barry asked.

Snart frowned at Barry with interest.  “It’s not about you,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was?”

Snart sipped his drink and looked over at the blank wall for no apparent reason.

It was official.  Barry was never going to figure out Captain Cold, the man was too weird and strange, like some machismo Martin Scorscese villain wrapped in a Saturday morning cartoon set in the Twilight Zone with a nonsensical actor high on a marijuana prescription and also, Barry was spending too much time with Cisco.  Or maybe the fumes of the alcohol were finally helping him get a buzz but… not likely.

“I was wondering,” Barry said, because thinking about alcohol reminded him of Caitlin (something he’d never tell her) and their conversation the night before, “I heard Shawna and the others talking about memos?”

“Shawna gets them because she has abilities and works as a Rogue at times,” Snart said, voice clipped and fast.

“I was…” _this is awkward,_ “I was wondering if I could get on the memo list?” Barry asked.

“No,” Snart said immediately.

“Oh,” Barry said.  He stayed still, waiting for Snart to say something else but he didn’t.  Snart was content to sit with the drink and look at the hockey game playing on the old television above Barry’s head.

Barry started wiping out spots from already washed cups, not having much else to do.  His phone was under the counter, probably with a good amount of texts from Cisco and Caitlin and… and likely more messages from Iris he wasn’t going to answer, but with his boss sitting right in front of him Barry didn’t want to check.

“Snart uh,” Barry said eventually, when the hockey game went to commercials.

Snart’s eyes jumped to him so fast they were a blur, even to someone with superspeed.  “We,” Barry said, “we’re out of Bacardi.  And I was hoping we could get a pink lemonade flavored vodka, I’ve made a lot of drinks with those for my friends.  Also, well, Shawna showed me the list of what was on order and the bitter liqueur we’re getting is just Cocchi Rosa.  I was wondering if we could get Casoni 1814?”

“Len,” Snart said.  “I thought you didn’t go to bartending school.”

“I… I like chemicals and mixing things,” Barry said, feeling his face flushing as he blurted out too much information, but, “I’m not good at social events.  My dorm was a big place for parties in college, and my roommate Manuel would take me all the time but I… I was always awkward so I would just mix drinks for people.  What does ‘Len’ mean?”

“It’s my name,” Snart said, “you can call me it.”

_Len_ Snart.  Right.  “Okay,” Barry said.   _Speaking of ‘awkward’_ , he thought with annoyance.

“Write down whatever you want,” _Len_ (so weird, so weird) said, “you can send it to the email I’ve been using to contact you.  I’ll get you anything.”

“Anything?” Barry perked up.

“Yep,” Len (so weird) said.

_Captain Cold says ‘yep’_ , Barry thought, morbidly fascinated.  “Even trail mix?”

“Anything you like,” Len Snart, of Captain Cold fame (Barry was having a strange time dealing with this… calling _Leonard Snart_ ‘Len’ like they were friends… whoa… were they? Kinda?) said.  Then Len leaned forward, looking straight at Barry, and repeated his words with intensity, _“Anything_ you like.”

“I…” Barry was confused.  “Can’t think of anything besides that?”

_Len_ Snart looked worried, and leaned forward again, which had Barry remembering the other time they’d been a bar and standing this close (except that was in the alternate timeline which Barry tried not to think about) and said sternly, “I am trying to say that-”

“Len!” Lisa called out loudly.  Len cringed.  “Mick! Boys,” Lisa continued loudly, “I need to see you in the basement office.”

Len set the glass down and looked suddenly so angry Barry felt the lightning crawl to his side in anticipation for a fight.  But instead, he just slid off the bench, grabbed his jacket and left the room.

* * *

Len realized, as he sat down at his workshop desk and Lisa remained standing, that this was going to be some horrible little sister lecture he was going to need to sit through.

Mick sat down, still holding his beer but not bothered at all by Lisa moving him down.  He pulled up his chair, instantly started to look at the tools and parts lying about on Len’s workshop desk with interest.  “What’re’you making?” Mick grumbled.

“Not important,” Lisa cut him off.  She stood behind the other chair, legs spread apart and shoulders squared in a power stance, her hands gripped the back of the chair like she was poised to strike.  Likely, she was.

“Got a cig?” Len asked Mick.  He needed something to have during this conversation.  Len was already regretting leaving his drink upstairs.

“Mick,” Lisa said, entreating to Mick the way she always did when Len wasn’t listening and she wanted to make Len do something.  “I am being helpful for once.”

“Good intentions,” Mick said under his breath, a whisper just meant for Len to hear.

“I have the _best_ of intentions for my brother,” Lisa continued.

Mick reached into his back pocket for a case of red American Spirit cigarettes and a lighter.  He handed them to Len.  

“Really?” Lisa frowned, “While I’m talking?”

“I don’t want to talk about this with _either_ of you,” Len said, as harsh as he wanted the words to be.  Lisa wasn’t bothered by his angry tone.  She never was.  Len might have a worldwide infamous reputation, but to Lisa he was always the older brother who would never hurt her.  

“What are we talking about?” Mick wondered.

“Len is going for the bartender,” Lisa said.

Len clenched the lighter in his hand and glared at her.  “That’s not _his_ fucking _business,”_ he snapped at her.

“I told you I was going to help.  This is me helping,” Lisa said, an edge to her voice.

“Let’s call the CCPD and news, tell the whole fucking planet about this.  When were _you_ so fucking cavalier about _secrets,_ sis?”

“I just _am,”_ Lisa growled.

Len stood up to meet her height.  “Get _out_ of this, or I’m kicking you off my team.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Lenny,” Lisa snarled.

“Really?” Len met her tone exactly, “Because I think you’re living in my safehouse and making use of my cash and using a gun _I_ got for you and playing with _my_ gang.  I am done entertaining this.”

“I,” Lisa yelled, with pure anger coming out of every syllable, “I am fucking _excited_ for you, _Leonard!_  I think for once this guy is actually fucking _good_ for you!  He’s not a complete asshole or sociopath, it’s a fucking _huge_ step up.”

“Hey, I ain’t a sociopath,” Mick said, perturbed.

Len snapped his eyes to his friend.  “She’s not talking about you,” he said.

Mick shrugged.  “Don’t deny it,” he said casually as he leaned back in the chair.

“That’s off topic,” Lisa rolled her eyes.

“I _never_ had a crush on you,” Len said, annoyed and defensive.   _“Never.”_

“Liar,” Mick grumbled, “you know.”

“I was _wasted,”_ Len insisted, “I had no idea what I was doing, you-”

“You’re just lucky I’m such a good friend, Snart,” Mick said, smug.

Len seethed.  “For the _last time_ , you-”

Mick looked at Lisa.  “It’s not that Marionetti who works the mornings?”

Lisa shook her head.  “No, he’s into that Barry Allen that’s working right now.”

Neither of them were listening to him at all, Len was more than regretting… everything.  He just regretted everything.  This entire business of playing costumed thieves was turning out to be much more complicated than expected and much more like leading a team rather than a gang, and Len wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  

“Good,” Mick said, intently serious, “Marionetti’s missin’ a ear, I’d hate to have to look at that more than I had to.”

“Barry is nice,” Lisa said, “even if he has his own issues.  But, obviously, Len is fucking this up.”

Len lit the cigarette.

Mick frowned, thinking.  “You,” he said to Len, “you need to be _friendly_ to ladies.  Show off scars.  Look tough and sweet.”

Len rubbed his free hand against his forehead, feeling a headache coming on just from dealing with Lisa and Mick’s nonsense.  “He’s not a woman, Mick.  I am not taking your advice.”

“The laws of seduction are universal,” Lisa said seriously, “I am _really_ good at this, Lenny.  And Mick’s _Mick_ but he’s not shabby either, so I think you should hear us out.  Mick is right.  You are not friendly enough to the guy.  You need to… to ask questions about his life.”

“I had a background check done on him.”

“Len, you’re so fucking stupid,” Lisa sighed.

Len glared at her as he inhaled.  

“Look, buddy,” Mick said, “you ain’t bad looking.  Just be less… stiff.  Romance is _passion,_ it ain’t a job.”

“And,” Lisa said seriously, “you should bring him into the inner circle.”

Len narrowed his eyes.  “What’re you talking about?”

“The _Rogues,”_ Lisa said, “and I know I was the one against this whole thing at first, but if you’re serious about this, you need to let him see you in action.  Be impressive.  Seduction-“

“If you say seduction one more time, sis, I am not staying here,” Len said.

“Fine.” Lisa rolled her eyes.   _“Romance._  You are scary.  And give off-”

“Evil,” Mick said.

Len glared at him.

Lisa, to Len’s annoyance, went along with it, “You give off _evil._  You need to help him realize you’re a giant softie inside.”

Len had never been more confused and angry in his life.  “I am not _soft_ and I am _definitely_ not evil.”

“Len,” Lisa said, voice dropping to be sweet and caring.  Len could see through it, but still, he paused to listen to her.  “Seriously.  You need to relax a little around Allen, because I hate to admit it but he seems like a genuinely nice guy and you might scare him off before I can even figure out if he’s into guys.”

_Shit._  Len closed his eyes. _That’s obvious._  Too obvious.  Len wasn’t… good at finding men to be around unless specifically in a place like a club or a bar, and he never attracted anyone looking for something long and to be fair, Len had hardly ever wanted that either.  But lately it....

Len came into the bar just to get a break from _Saints,_ ever since the visit from the Flash the establishment he’d used to love hadn’t been so friendly.  So he just wanted a couple drinks and a round of pool to get his mind off of things when he’d just had a fun time _looking_ at Barry.  He was handsome, young, and smiled a _lot,_ it was hard not to look.  Then Barry helped a drunk woman get home and away from a man leering at her.  Helped an old man puking in the bathroom to call his daughter to pick him up.  Took away keys from drunks and didn’t back down when they threatened him.  And that was all the things Len noticed when he’d been focused on just beer and games, so _fuck,_ he’d wanted a bar and couldn’t resist _this_ bar.  A bad impulse decision, but Len was familiar with following his gut where it led him.

In the past, that impulse had had Len kicked out of gangs at the worst time, left him stranded in Cuba on a job, had him losing his ex-best partner, and once when he was drunk, actually kissing _Mick_ because his beer-addled mind thought Mick’s suggestion to get prostitutes was flirtation.  

Len had _great_ impulses when there was a gun to his head or a job to do.  He had awful as shit impulses when a man so much as smiled in his direction.  And Barry… Barry smiled a lot.  At jokes.  At his phone when he thought Len couldn’t see.  When Barry was just relaxed and thinking.  Len was almost sick with wanting Barry to smile at _him._  

But smiles were common, not at all the best thing to gauge interest in.  And Len had learned extreme caution after far too many bad experiences.  Len had even had a thing for the _Flash_ for a while, their tense exchanges had occasionally been peppered with a laugh, so at least his newfound interest in Barry Allen was safer.

Len hadn’t looked into the fact Barry Allen could be straight.  Didn’t want to.  Because if Barry Allen was straight, then Len had to stop daydreaming; but if Barry Allen _wasn’t_ then Len had to run the risk of trying and then fucking everything up and he… he wasn’t old, but he was getting to the point where never having a long relationship was a scary sign he might never have one.  Len… he… fuck it, he didn’t know what he’d do if Barry was available but Len still managed to fuck it up.

It was painful.  Romance was always painful and shameful and _rotten._  Len hated the way his emotions churned, uncontrolled, and his anxiety flared like he was a kid again.  He wanted to deal with this _alone,_ not with Lisa and Mick watching him and analyzing him.

Len finished the cigarette and wanted another one instantly.  

“Fine,” he said, interrupting a discussion Lisa and Mick were having about the gray in Len’s hair, “fine.”

Lisa looked utterly triumphant.

Len ground the cigarette filter and ash into the table, merciless and ignoring the slight feeling of heat on his fingertips and nails.  “I will be _nicer,”_ he compromised, “and you figure out if he could be interested and Mick forgets this entire fucking conversation happened.”

“You made the right decision, Lenny,” Lisa said, straight-faced and with some terrible glint of mischief in her eyes.  Mick just shrugged and took his lighter back.


	4. On the Rocks

Now that _Barry Allen_ knew Mark Mardon, the _Flash_ could recognize Weather Wizard’s behavior for what it was.  Mark, his body tingling with power, hoisted himself up in the air through a vortex that stemmed from his fingers and whipped his hair over his face – he was showing off.  Probably for Shawna.

Barry felt a bit… creepy knowing that.  

But, as Barry dodged a bolt and a fallen car – knocked over by the vortex, empty and parked – he couldn’t help a quip, “Think you’re confusing peacocking with romance, Wizard?”

A single police car and two officers were blocking off the city street, giving the Flash room to bring Mark in.  Barry had been running past, on his common route of patrol around the city, when he heard the alarm and went to check it out only to see Mark Mardon, the Weather Wizard and bar patron himself, stepping out of a high end pawn shop with a bag that Barry could easily guess was valuable jewelry, considering Mark Mardon was wearing a chain around his neck and had a gold watch haphazardly clipped to his wrist.

Mark scowled and a gust of wind took out the last unbroken window of the jewelry shop.  His hand clenched around the silk bag in his hand.

Shawna seemed to Barry as more punk rock that a gift of jewelry and flowers.  And an entire bag of stolen jewels? Overkill.  Mark had to be planning to pawn the rest of his score off when the heat died down, and it was the Flash’s job to make sure that didn’t happen.

Even if he felt a little weird about the fact he was possibly intercepting Mark’s thinly veiled attempt to impress Shawna, but Barry tried to bury the sympathy (for the man who _kidnapped_ his foster father and tried to _destroy_ Central City in a _tsunami)_ for Mark.

“Alright, you need at least five stories on this guy if you’re going to jump off and intercept him in the air,” Cisco said, buzzing into Barry’s earpiece.

“Got it,” Barry said.

“What?” Mark Mardon yelled from his position in the winds.  

Barry didn’t hesitate.  He flung himself into the lightning, felt the world slowing down around him, screeching winds became a whisper and police sirens a heartbeat as he moved.  One foot in front of the other.  His heel his sidewalk, his toes pressed onto brick.  

The world tilted as he moved upward, running on the building.  Caitlin was saying something in his ear but the words were too slow.  “B…bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb…” Fading into the exhale of air.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five stories.  “bbbbbbBe careful;” as Barry pushed off and spread his arms.  Wind whipped into his eyes; stinging; but in a moment Barrys arms were grabbing Mark’s body by the shoulders.

“Flash-!” Mark’s yell was cut short.  They fell at an angle, dropping too quick for a normal person to adjust but Barry saw it all in slow motion.  He twisted Mark around his side, leaving room for Barry’s feet, and then his heels hit the ground at an angle.  Barry moved quickly, running in a wide circle to dispel the kinetic energy.

Barry was distracted by the relief of having nailed the landing.  He didn’t see the hit coming.  One moment he was slowing down, ready to adjust and run Mark to the metahuman ward of Iron Heights, the next a bag of hard objects collided with his face, hitting right below his eye.  

It hurt a surprising amount.  Barry stumbled.  He reached out toward his eye, hand fast as lightning, grasped at the bag and his hand was full of silk.  Barry tugged, Mark fell down to the pavement.  The bag of jewelry  split open, contents spilled over the cement.  For a blink of an eye, they both just stared.

 _“Now!_ Weather-boy!” Shawna yelled.   _Shawna?!_ She was there, peeling out of a puff of black smoke with a telescope in her hand.

“No!” Barry yelled, but the pair were gone in another plum of smoke before he could reach them.  He ran, circled the area in a few seconds, but there was no sign of them and Barry knew it was a lost effort.

Besides.  He knew where they’d be later tonight.  Barry just wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

* * *

Barry had gone back to the scene of the crime to clean up (which hadn’t taken long), give a report to the detectives that arrived on scene, and take some pictures with Central City’s Finest and the shop owners.  The shop owners, surprisingly, had been thrilled about the whole thing.  

Still, it was only 5:07 when he arrived to his 5 o’clock shift at the bar, which Barry counted as a bitter victory.  His eye was healed now at least, thanks to super accelerated healing he wouldn’t have to explain sporting a heavy bruise right where the Flash had been hit in the eye.  

Barry stepped into the bar, expecting anything _but_ a party.

Shawna had ten drinks set out in front her on the counter, and was laughing at something Mick said while Mick grabbed at the first of them.  She glanced at the door when Barry walked in, and immediately waved at him and held up one of the beers.

Barry stepped forward, took it because he felt like he should though he didn’t plan to drink it.  There was music playing, loud, and he looked down and saw it coming from a boom box someone had set on one of the tables.  Lisa was playing Len at pool, Len looked up at Barry.  Barry waved at him.  

He walked through the door to the back, wondering why everyone was so loud and cheerful.   There was no one in the bar who wasn’t a Rogue, did that mean today was another day without customers because this was simultaneously a job that was boring and that spiked his anxiety like a-

Barry was just about to step into the storage room, where he could set down his coat and punch his timecard (it was an old system) but right as he moved to open the door.  The door opened first, Barry stepped aside and then froze, staring, as Hartley Rathaway walked through.

Barry swallowed, hard, not wanting to move but- this was fine, it was going to be fine, Hartley didn’t know?  

Hartley looked at him, eyes dropping to appraise Barry from bottom to top, and he settled on Barry’s face with a smirk.  Hartley opened his mouth to say something, but the words halted.  Recognition crossed his face.   _“You,”_ he whispered.

 _He knows? Does he know?_ Barry stared at him.  “Y-You worked with Cait-”

“Barry!” A hand clamped on Barry’s shoulder.

The look Hartley was giving him, Barry had no idea what it meant.  Did Hartley just recognize Barry? Did he know Barry knew Caitlin and Cisco? Had he drawn the connection between Barry and the Flash?

“Look, ‘need to talk,” Mark’s hand squeezed Barry’s shoulder.  

It was done.  This was a trap.  Everyone knew Barry was the Flash now.  He was going to have to fight for his life and-

“Stop, bein’ so pale, c’mon,” Mark tugged.  “I need to talk to you.  Bathroom.”

 _Mark Mardon_ needed to talk to _Barry?_ About what? Barry glanced back at Hartley, meeting the other’s glare with nerves.  He wasn’t sure what Hartley knew, or if what he knew would end up being an issue, but right now he couldn’t afford to make a scene so Barry let Mark pull him into the bathroom.

The bathroom in the bar had a few measures made to clean it up, most of the grime was removed but the tiles were still old and the walls and mirrors covered in graffiti.  There were some new touched since the Rogues had come in, the conspicuous round hole between two of the stalls had been plastered over and the soap and napkins were actually filled up.  Still, it was a men’s bathroom.  Barry lifted his sleeve up to his nose the moment he stepped inside.  

Mark grimaced too, and then stepped over to the wall to the window by the urinals.  He pushed on it, the window, which was painted over with blue paint to let light come through but which let some light in, was rusty.  It only budged a few inches, but that was enough.  Mark lifted his hands up high, Barry felt a weird feeling, like the air in his lungs was lifting and a breeze ran up from his ankles to tickle at his neck.  Mark made a motion with his hands, drawing an ‘x’ across his chest, and there was a huge breeze that stopped as soon as it began.  

Mark had apparently replaced all the air in the bathroom with the air from outside.  It was incredible impressive, and Barry tried to be sure his expression had a suitable amount of awe. It only smelled a little better.  

Barry knelt down, opened the cabinet under the sink, and sprayed a can of Febreze.  That worked.

“I need your opinion on something,” Mark said.  He was wearing a large, brown trenchcoat over tight, rock and roll esque black jeans and a shirt. He’d changed somewhat since Barry had seen him before.

“We don’t really talk much,” Barry said.

“I know,” Mark said.  “But you talk with Shawna.”  Mark reached deep into his trenchcoat pocket, pulling out three things that shone.

Looks like Weather Wizard got away with some things from the jewelry store after all, Barry thought, annoyed.  

“For Shawna,” Mark said.  “Watch,” he held up the gold watch, “necklace,” it was pearls, strung together with gold into a long cone shape, “or earrings,” and finally, two long, delicate pairs of earrings with swirling gold interlaced with green emeralds.  

“Um…”  Barry swallowed.  

“Look, please,” Mark said, “I didn’t manage to stuff much into my pockets before the Flash showed up.”

“I guess… either the watch or the earrings?” Barry offered.  “She wears earrings.  Everyone likes watches.  So, uh…”

Mark stuffed the watch and necklace into his pocket.  He looked at the earrings again.  “Yeah?”

“I think so?” Barry apologized.

“Thanks” Mark said looking at the earrings with a critical eye, “just felt weird asking anyone else.  You seem the most _normal.”_

 _Normal._ Barry supposed that was a compliment considering who Mark was comparing him with. "So you and Shawna-" he started to ask.

Mark shook his head. "Nope. No more talking," he said stiffly. Mark stuck his hand in his pocket and strutted out of the bathroom, the door shutting with a slam behind him.

Then Barry was alone, and well, he could always make time for the bathroom, considering the amount of food he ate. He took his time, washed his hands, then ran still-wet fingers through his hair to dry them and ended up rubbing his temples staring at his reflection. _Alright, lots of information._

First, his enemies were coordinating attacks to drive the Flash's attention away from their real scores. That was serious. Barry didn't have Firestorm to call for help anymore, and unless he could convince Thea or Laurel to pack up and move to Central City he was on his own for dealing with that, and no matter how fast Barry was he couldn't be in two places at once. Second, Hartley Rathaway was here. Hartley had looked... Hartley'd figured out Well's secret on his own, and he had been close to Caitlin and Cisco. If anyone was the biggest threat to Barry's undercover identity, it was Hartley.

The jukebox was definitely playing _Renegades._ Barry loved that song.

"Okay," Barry said, steeling himself while looking at his reflection, "I-"

The door opened, Barry jumped. Time slowed down instantly, lightning crackled to Barry's side as he tensed but just as quickly the feeling settled down. Not Hartley. Mick Rory.

Barry reached over for the paper towels, wiping his hand. He barely glanced at his reflection but noticed something _off._ He turned around. Mick was staring at him.

Barry's eyes flashed over Mick, looking for the bulge of a gun under the loose shirt and suspenders the man was wearing but he didn't see anything. "Can I help you?" Barry asked.

"Maybe," Mick said, his voice sounded... different. Less gruff, more smooth. "I was wond'ring," Mick said. He was close, not unbearable close but still close enough that Barry could see the stubble on his chin. "'F there's anything you want me to cook. People tell me I'm a talented chef, so if ya ever want something..." Mick trailed off.

Oh, the prospect of food sounded great. It _always_ sounded great, there were hardly ever times in Barry's recent life that he _wasn't_ ready to eat. "I'll let you know. I mean, I can't say 'no'," Barry said with a nervous laugh, "but if you're cooking something for everyone then, yeah. I'd love some.".

"If there's anything just you want," Mick said.  He leaned forward, and then just with that tiny move he was close enough to Barry that it felt uncomfortable.

"Um, okay," Barry said. He stepped back.

Mick looked curious. "I figure there's no reason the two of us can't be friendly," Mick told him.

"'Course," Barry nodded.

Mick, smug, leaned forward, _why is he so close,_ Barry wondered, and then Mick shrugged. _"How_ friendly 's up to you, Allen," Mick said.

Holy... no. Barry's face lighted up, blood rushed into his ears. _Flirting._ Mick Rory was flirting with him. _Heatwave_ was- what? Heatwave? Barry had never, could never have guessed Heatwave was gay, much less interested in him- _what?!_ "I- I don't, uh, I'm not, I don't know, I-"

"You're not _what?"_ Mick asked with interest.

"I'm at work," Barry said.

Mick looked triumphant. "Gotcha, Allen," he said, and he _winked._ "Don't worry 'bout it."

Why did Mick look like he just won something? "Oh, uh- thank you," Barry said. _'Thank you'?!_ He thought. _'Thank you.'_

Mick shrugged, stepped away and left the bathroom, pulling a cigarette out the back of his jeans. The door closed behind him, Barry could hear Shawna groaning and telling Mick not to light up in the bar, and Barry stared.

Barry really needed to tell someone- his phone lit up, a text from Iris on his screen. "Call me maybe? <3"

Every fiber of his being told him to call her. Barry texted Cisco instead.

* * *

"Lenny," Lisa soothed, her knuckled pushed into Len's shoulder, in the semblance of a massage but she didn't move. "Mick and I have an update for you."

Len set his pool cue down, gave James Jesse a look. It was fine, James had been cheating the entire game anyways, the Italian was a hell of a good bluffer but Len wasn't easily distracted. Still, he'd let the man get away with it. Cheating at pool wasn't something to ruin a professional relationship over.

Len glanced over at the bar, Barry had just got back. Hartley Rathaway was over with the radio, he's connected it to the vintage jukebox, mumbling something about sound quality. Len didn't like the man so far, but Hartley had some connection with Shawna and Mark so Len was giving him a chance. His Rogues were getting too-

"Lenny, come on," Lisa said, tugging gently on his shoulders. "Mick's waiting in the office."

Len made a point, as they walked into the storage room and then the main office through there (a tiny room, barely holding a desk and a chair), not to look at Barry. His face was a cold mask of emotionless indifference.

Lisa still grinned at him, an annoying expression on her face, as they walked into the storage.

"What?" Len asked, frowning at her.

Lisa just shrugged, walked past the boxes and stepped into the office.

Len sighed, ran his hand over his chin. He walked in after her. Mick was sitting at the desk, his feet up and a smug expression on his face. Lisa leaned up against the bookshelf, and there wasn't too much room left. Len closed the door and leaned against it. "Five minutes," Len said.

"Mick," Lisa said.

"Alright," Mick said. He took his boots off the desk. "He's definitely into men."

Len's swallowed hard. He suddenly felt nervous. Len didn't let any of his nervousness change his poker face. "How do you know?"

"I flirted with him," Mick said.

Len's stomach dropped. "You _what?"_ He snapped.

"Look, buddy, I wasn't-" Mick started to say.

"I told him to," Lisa jumped in, "I figured that was the best way for us to find out."

"What the fuck," Len growled, glaring at Mick, "did you do?"

"We just figured," Mick said, shrugging, "since gay men love me-"

"That isn't true," Len said, starting to feel that exasperated annoyance, that would later grow into anger, that always built, slowly and slowly like a river freezing over, when he was around Mick for too long.

"Actually," Lisa said. She had that look on her face like she was studying Len. "I told Mick to make sure Allen rejected him, so don't worry. I just thought _how_ Allen rejects him could tell us a lot."

Len wanted a good, stiff drink.  He felt like there was dust in his eye, reached up and rubbed as his face tensed and jaw clenched.  “So the fucking plan was that Mick _flirts_ with Barry.”

“The good news is,” Mick said, as if he could say something to make this all better, “Allen never said he was straight.”

Len paused.  “He didn’t say he was gay,” he concluded.

“Well, no,” Mick said, still unwaveringly confident, “but the first thing a’ man’d do if a guy hit on him is to say he had a girlfriend or he was straight.”

“You know this because you’re a prototype of a sane straight male, then?” Len asked.

Mick sat up, glaring.  “I’m helping you, fucker you-”

“Whoa boys,” Lisa said calmly, “let’s not have one of your famous spats.  Everyone is trying to help here.”

“Except the actual fucking plan here is flirt with the man I’m interested in,” Len said, bitter.

“Yes, but we’re mostly sure he’s into you know,” Lisa said, and then corrected, “or men.  He seems more likely to be into men.”  Len looked at them, silent.  Lisa shrugged and said, “Have you put any more thought into what I said? About bringing Allen into the Rogues?”

“Yes,” Len said.

“Care to…” Lisa looked at Mick and then back to Len.  “Elaborate?”

“No.”

Lisa sighed, exaggerated, long, and world weary as if she was an opera diva exclaiming over the sufferings of the world, or a duchess losing her fortune, or one of those other characters from the “classy” television shows she insisted on watching while fixing engines in her garage.  Len’s motorcycle broke once.  Lisa made him ‘keep her company’ and watch three episodes of Downton Abbey.  He had no idea why Lisa liked those things.

He kept his mind involved in the nonsequitor while staring Lisa down.  Eventually, she sighed again.  “Fine,” Lisa said sourly, “do that part on your own.  But I still want to know how it goes.”


	5. Kahlua and Cream

Len had barely, barely parked his motorcycle before Lisa was walking over to him, smooth as a cat with a devastatingly wicked look of innocence to match.  She set her hands on his handlebars and watched Len pull off his helmet.  

It was getting dark, it was the middle of the fall and the nights were coming in earlier, so though it was just after five o’clock, the day was getting cooler and the night starting to dim.  Lisa’s favorite season, Len’s obviously came after.  The parking space was only large enough for a car, but Len, Lisa and Mick managed to fit their bikes in, and the small space was pretty ideal for concealment, jammed between the storage unit for their bar and for the long- since abandoned Wet Seal next door (some Central City entrepreneur had made bets the neighborhood would be gentrified a couple of years ago, planted several stores and coffee places that now stood empty.  He didn’t account for Keystone’s stubborn inability to accept change and willing acceptance of mafia funding to keep their gritty, harsh culture).  

“You know,” Lisa said, immediately picking up Len’s helmet when he set it on his seat, “you probably shouldn’t wear this if you take Allen out for a ride.”  She pursued her lips and added, “Or a picnic by a park.”

Len frowned at her.  “Do not ride with the helmet off, Lisa,” he said, serious.  

Lisa said, her body language sincere, “I _never_ do.”  And then she winked.

Len could feel a vein starting to pop in his forehead.  He reached up, pressing the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger. “Lisa,” he warned.

“I’m the epitome of safety, Lenny,” Lisa nodded, “I’m a safety girl.”

“That’s what the prostitute says,” Len said, with a long sigh of annoyance, “in that thing.”

Lisa pretended to gasp.  “Are you calling me a hooker?”

“Pretty Woman,” Len said, clicking his hand as he remembered the name of the film.

“Aw, yes I _am,”_ Lisa grinned, “jerk.”  She blew Len a kiss, and then moved to open the employee entrance.  “It’s been two days since we talked, Lenny.”

Len wondered if he could get away with answering with a curt nod and then going to his work.  There was a serious issue happening right now, a family from Gotham trying to extend territories into Keystone, hitting where they felt places were weak.  A jewelry store only four blocks from here had been robbed the night before, and any families, gangs, or blue-collar criminals from Central or Keystone _knew_ to keep their business away from here.  It couldn’t be any more obvious if Len tagged the-

Should he tag it?  Len shrugged.  Maybe.  It seemed a bit juvenile, but there couldn’t be any backlash he and his metahumans couldn’t handle.  He’d need to figure out some Rogues or Captain Cold symbol though, before he spray painted it around his territory.

Len noticed, as he walked inside, that Lisa was looking at him with expectation on her face.   _Right,_ he thought.  Suppressing the urge to sigh, Len said calmly, “I figured out something Allen could do for us.  I’m going to ask him tonight.”

“You better,” Lisa said, raising a finger, “and if you need help planning that picnic-”

“Why would I ever go on a picnic?”  Len asked.

Lisa shrugged.  “Dude who works with us controls the fucking weather.  Nothing surprises me.”

* * *

 

There were many rules that a superhero needed to follow, some which Barry was told from Oliver and some that Barry made up himself.  Others came from comic books he read as a kid, like _With great power comes great responsibility_ and _Never pay full price for a late pizza_.  One rule, which Barry considered, as he walked downward into the basement, needed to be etched in stone and displayed on the tallest building in town. _Don’t follow your nemesis into the middle of their evil lair._

“Anyways,” Len said, gesturing to a large, empty, garage-like space, “this is it for now.”  There were tables and desks set up around the room and little else, a few mattresses in the back targets drawn into them, and one or two file cabinets, but the majority was taken up by desks, with papers or technology spread over them, making this look like the rejects room of Palmer tech.  

“It’s nice,” Barry said.  He shivered and pulled the sweater he was wearing over his dress shirt to cover his hands more.  It was cold down here.  

“What I want you to look at is here,” Len said, and he walked over toward one of the tables, where a large safe was resting on top, looking very in-place for this environment.

_Don’t help your enemies with their crime.  Rule number, holy shit what the fuck am I doing?_  Barry took a deep breath through his nose, crossed his arms, and stepped forward toward the safe.   _Undercover._   _I can do this.  Undercover Barry Allen._  Len was looking at him, face impassive, hands set on the table, leaning slightly forward.  The blue eyes stared at him as Barry looked at the safe, and Barry felt almost naked under his gaze.  He shivered.

So the back of the safe was completely sawed open and there was no money inside, which led Barry to be at a complete loss.  “If,” Barry started to say, and then stopped. _Am I allowed to ask questions?_

Len gave a short grunt that seemed to say ‘Ask away’, so Barry swallowed the instincts inside him telling him to run- because this was a tiny, small, condensed area and the cold gun definitely had an advantage here and- nope.  Barry was _Barry Allen_.  Undercover bartender.  Or, as Cisco kept calling him, _Sneaky_ Flash.  Nevermind.  Cisco’s was worse.

“You,” Barry said, gesturing to the safe, “you already got all the money out.”

Len looked at him for a solid three seconds, an eternity to Barry, and then said, “The safe was like this when we got it.  I want to know who was there first.”

This was not what Barry had expected to do when he got here to work, but it was better than cleaning the bar at average-human-speed with Shawna.  “Do you have fingerprinting tools?  Q-tips and bottles for DNA sampling-”

“Yes,” Len said.  He moved to a desk, picked up a cardboard box and brought it back to the table, setting it down gently.  “The entire contents of the desk of a Mr. Brown with the CCPD.”  

Barry’s eyes widened.  “You- you broke into the CCPD?  For this?”  

“I didn’t.  Shawna did.  Don’t worry, we scouted the security cameras first, no one has any clue it was us and the entire department’s chalking it up to a hazing prank,” Len said, calm.  “If you need anything else, same as the bar, write a list for me.”

“Else?  For…” Barry looked at the tools, pulling out a fingerprinting set he recognized as being the new standard issue.  All of these tools, the safe, seemed a bit like… “This is a test?”

“Yes,” Len didn’t hide it.  He leaned slightly forward on the table.  “This safe is months old.  Still, figure out who stole it and there’s a job in it for you.”

“I already am employed.  By you,” Barry said.

“You’ll get a percentage of profits of anything taken from heists or other Rogue activity, and the protections and membership perks that includes,” Len said.  

“So I’ll…” Barry frowned, looking at the tools.  “I’ll be the Rogues’ on-call forensics guy?”  

“And anything else that might be in your wheelhouse,” Len added.

Barry… okay, making money working a bar was one thing, but actively making money doing criminal activities for the Rogues was very different.  He… well, this meant he’d be as close to the Rogues inner circle as he could possibly get, which was great for being undercover, except now Barry Allen would pretty much officially become a criminal.  He needed… Barry needed to talk to Joe.  And Eddie.  Eddie used to work Vice, he’d have to know- there was no way Barry was going to let himself become a prison- a _criminal.  No.  No no, no no way._  This was good, and equal parts bad.  

“What percentage?” Barry asked, his voice catching in his throat.  He had to clear it, blood rising to his face in embarrassment.  

“Two percent,” Len said, enunciating the words clearly.  

“I, this….” Barry said, and then froze.  His hands clutched the fingerprints bag.  

Len looked at Barry’s hands, and then his face looked almost sympathetic as he turned back to Barry.  “I know this wasn’t the side of the law you planned to follow in your life,” Len said quietly.  Barry just nodded.  “But we protect our own.  You’ll never be mentioned on any documents as being anything but a bartender.  If you get into trouble, the Rogues will protect you, and if one of the Rogues gets in trouble, I have ensured as best as I can that no one will talk.”

“Okay,” Barry said, his mind planning out the steps for how he was going to explain the situation to Joe and Eddie and get himself protected and written down as an informant.  

Len walked around the table, until he was standing right in front of Barry, almost too close, and the man’s hand reached out, taking Barry’s wrist and holding him tight.  Damn, Barry thought, his hands are freezing.  “The department didn’t do right by you,” Len said, looking into Barry’s eyes, “I will.”

_Does he stand this close with all of his employees?_ Barry wondered.  “I know.”

“You need to be on board with this,” Len told Barry, serious, “if any part of you has been angry about losing that job, has been wanting payback, I can tell you the opportunity for revenge is right here.  You’ll find nothing better.”

“I just… I need to think about it,” Barry said, nervous.  "Wait," he reached his hand up to his forehead, rubbing out his nerves. "This... less than a week ago you didn't want me in the Rogues, and now you do?"

Len looked at him, tilting his head slightly. "Consider it a promotion."

"What-" Barry couldn't figure out if this was luck or a bad break. He really wished he knew what Len was thinking right now, but to Barry it seemed like he was falling deeper and deeper into a quicksand. "What changed your mind?"

Len's hand tapped the table, and he picked up a screwdriver and rolled it against the wood with his palm. "Obviously, I need your expertise."

The way he said 'expertise' sounded terribly sarcastic. "Okay?" Barry said. "That's it?"

Len met Barry's gaze. "I also wanted to talk about _Mick,"_ he said slowly, rolling the name around his mouth with disdain.

_Heatwave? What about_ \- Barry remembered the moment in the bathroom, and his face felt red. No, there was no way Len knew about that. Could there? "About hi-" Barry said, the awkwardness practically screaming from the angles he tried to fit his arms into as he tried to seem casual, "sm- smoking in the bar?"

"Mick is straight," Len said, his expression fiercely serious, "he was just messing with you. He won't do it again."

Barry frowned. "Did he tell you what happened?"

"All of it," Len said.

Barry wasn't sure if Len was telling the truth. Then again, the Flash had plenty of reasons to distrust Captain Cold, not so much Barry Allen. He took a deep breath. "Uh, so Mick was just messing with me?" He asked.

Len nodded.

"’Cause he thought I was gay?" Barry asked.

Len suddenly seemed very tense. He nodded again.

"Well I," Barry swallowed, and said, knowing it was only partially true, "Hartley Rathaway is gay. So uh- if Mick is doing, I'm still not sure what he's doing honestly, but you should keep him from doing that to him."

"Rathaway's on retainer, I haven't decided if I want him joining," Len said. "You know him?"

"Caitlin- Dr. Snow did," Barry said. He was glad the lighting was dark, the embarrassment and nerves from lying in this conversation were likely making his skin a terrible mix of beet red and pale white.

Len set both his hands on the table and clenched them, he looked over toward the stairs as he said, "Thoughts?"

"Huh?"

"On Rathaway," Len said.

At least Len wasn't staring anymore, but it was a bit disorienting to have a conversation with someone that wasn't even looking at him. To busy his hands, Barry looked through the bag of forensic supplies, taking out what he needed for fingerprints. "He acts pretty full of himself, which is half a front and half serious. He's smart though, but," Barry shrugged, "I mean, he threw a bunch of people off a bridge."

"Most people I work with are killers," Len said. He picked up the screwdriver and twirled it in his fingers.

"I'm... not," Barry said. He stumbled over the words, knowing Barry Allen might never have bloodied his hands but the Flash was not at all blameless.

"Don't worry. I have this..." Len thought for a moment, "Rogues Code. I've been implementing it, anyone who joins my organization has to follow the rules, so no more killing."

Barry glared at him, but remembered to it cover up. _Of course, he's just going to pretend he came up with it all by himself._ "That's really great of you," Barry said, as genuine as he could. "By the way, the 'Rogues', pretty cool name. Did you come up with it?"

Len didn't even hesitate in answering. "Yep, I did."

If Barry could have, he would have thrown something in annoyance. Though, could he really expect anything different of Len Snart? But it was so, so frustrating to hear the man lie to Barry's face and Barry not be able to call him out on it. Barry _knew,_ even if Captain Cold didn't know the Flash's identity, the conversation in the woods after Cisco's kidnapping had gone relatively the same.

"How do you know Rathaway is gay?" Len asked, breaking Barry's bitter musing.

"Well, it's sort of obvious," Barry said with a shrug. He pulled gloves onto his hand, figuring he might as well get started powdering the safe and looking for fingerprints.

Len's forehead wrinkled, he looked annoyed, or bored. He leaned over the table, elbows on the wood, and jammed the screwdriver into the wood. He twisted it, casually committing a small act of destruction as he spoke. "It's hardly obvious," he said.

"Have you, talked to Rathaway? He flirts with every guy he sees," Barry said.

"He didn't flirt with me," Len said. And- _huh?_ Barry looked at him, carefully this time. Len looked... disappointed. That was the expression Barry couldn't figure out.

"Well, you're... scary?" Barry said. "Everyone here's a criminal, I mean, and if Mick's a bigot it's probably for the best."

"Mick's not a bigot," Len said, looking at Barry with actual surprise on his face.

"I- then why did he-" _what is the least awkward way to phrase this,_ "act… uh, all weird around me?" Barry asked.

Len paused, looked at Barry with a stern expression, and said, every word slow and careful like it had been calculated, "He was being an ass to me, not to you."

"Why?" Barry asked, immediate.

Len rolled his eyes, and turned back to the screwdriver. "It's irrelevant now."

"What is?"

Len dropped the screwdriver on purpose, the clatter of metal on wood was loud in the basement. He turned to Barry, tense like he was ready to fight, and said with a calm, casual voice that didn't fit his expression, "Mick was just trying to prove he's better than me at picking up guys."

"Why?" Barry asked, not even thinking. It took a surprisingly long amount of time, a couple seconds, for Barry to understand. "Oh, 'cause you- 'cause _you're_ gay?"

"Yes," Len said.

Barry's eyes widened. "Oh.  That-" It was strange, knowing something like this about Captain Cold. The man was supposed to be his enemy, even if the line was always a little blurry, but- man, Barry knew too much about the Rogues now. He knew Mark had puppy love for Shawna, that Shawna was trying to be a registered nurse, Mick was a good cook, Lisa seemed to be in love with turtleneck sweaters, and- this. There was no way Barry was going to be able to separate the people he knew, who thought of him as a colleague and maybe a friend, and the thieves and killers the Flash needed to fight.

"Do you have anywhere I could run these fingerprints?" Barry asked.  

"No," Len said, curt. He sat up, dropped the screwdriver onto the table, and stretched his arms. "Finish up quick, Shawna will need help upstairs soon."

Barry frowned at the safe. Sure, he could probably use the technology and resources at his disposal as the Flash to run the fingerprints, but did Len expect Barry to find a way to sneak into the police database just for this test? _He probably does,_ Barry thought with annoyance.

Len looked like he was leaving.  "You're going?" Barry asked, before he realized the answer to that was obvious.

"Need to get spray paint," Len said. "Also, tomorrow, bar is closed. And," he stopped, gestured to all the tables and technology around them, "don't touch anything."

* * *

Barry set the three coffees down at their table, and didn't realize he was staring at the empty seat by the window before Caitlin cleared her throat. Jitters was busy, but the regular table they sat in was still open. The coffee place, with its bright natural light and the nostalgia of a familiar place, had become something like a staple in his life for years. The bustling murmur of people chatting around them on their lunch break, people getting orders, and the news playing on low volume on the televisions on the wall was comforting.

"It's noon," Caitlin said, "Cisco couldn't get off work."

"A metahuman thing," Barry said, repeating verbatim what Cisco had texted.

Caitlin took her coffee, and reached for the sugar packets at the center of the table. "I'm sure if they need the Flash, they'll tell you."

"Sure," Barry said. He tapped his fingers on the table before noticing what he was doing, and opened the top of his coffee and took all the remaining sugar packets.

"Iris texted me," Caitlin said, "asking what you were up to.  You two haven't talked?"

"I'm trying to give them space," Barry said.

Caitlin nodded. There was a moment of silence, there were always awkward pauses when Cisco wasn't there to perk up the conversation, and Barry found himself looking at Caitlin. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which she hardly ever did, and her face looked pale, with dark blue circles under her eyes.

"Have you been sleeping okay?" Barry asked.

"As best as I can," Caitlin said with a shrug. Barry didn't press it, but after a moment of hesitation Caitlin continued anyway, "My mattress and bedsheets were gifts from Ronnie's parents back when we announced our engagement. So is the couch. And the microwave," she said.

"Oh," Barry said, not able to think of anything else to say.

"My parents just gave us ten thousand in cash and a hallmark card," Caitlin said, "after they found out Ronnie's parents gave us gifts."

Caitlin hardly ever talked about her parents. Barry took a drink of his coffee and nodded.

"I just..." Caitlin clenched her fist, let it go, and sighed, "I don't make enough at my new job to redecorate yet and I'm not going to ask my parents for money. It's just... Ugh. _Shitty._ It's shitty. Every time I look around my place there's something I see that reminds me of Ronnie and... I'm _really,"_ Caitlin looked at Barry, sincere, _"really_ glad you moved in."

"I'm glad I have a place," Barry said.

"So I," Caitlin said, shaking her head a bit, "so, Cisco told me to tell you to talk to Iris because he thinks you and Eddie are being dumb but I- well I understand, sometime we just need time. To move on. And..." She sighed, and didn't continue. But her gaze suddenly went to a man in the coffee line who had a dress shirt pulled up to his elbows and a hipster beard on his face.

"I don't really," _want to talk about it._ Barry drank his coffee instead.

"We should go to a club," Caitlin said suddenly. "You and me. Dress up nice, find some crazy place. Doesn't the Arrow own a club?"

"Green Arrow, and I don't think he does anymore," Barry said.

"They probably know the best places to go," Caitlin said.

"That's all the way in Starl- Star City though," Barry said, fumbling a bit over the name change.

"I guess I could google around, find a place to go," Caitlin said.

"I'm not really a club person."

"We could do OkCupid?" Caitlin offered, "Or tindr?"

"But online dating is... it just seems impersonal," Barry said.

"It's how everyone does it now, I think," Caitlin said. "What about speed dating? More casual, we can go someone with food, and you actually meet the person?"

"I'll," Barry grimaced at the thought, but then closed his mouth and nodded. He regretted it immediately.

"Speed dating it is," Caitlin decided, and took a big drink of her coffee.


	6. Compulsory Romantic Ventures

Barry was still fidgeting with the ends of his shirt. It was nice, Iris always said Barry looked good in red, but the shirt was about a year old and though the fit looked right it was pinching his wrists.  He had gained muscle, even if he was still too skinny for it to be noticeable with a shirt on.  

Should he just take his shirt off on the dates tonight? God no. But maybe it would make it easier for him to get out of there- crap, Barry didn't want to go speed dating. He didn't want to wear the shirt that pinched his wrists, or his grey jacket that felt too big, like he was swimming in it. And the shoes. Barry hated the shoes. He hadn't realized he'd hate a pair of dress shoes so much until a few minutes after he put them on, they were so uncomfortable in every conceivable way. They were nothing like his Flash uniform or a pair of running sneakers or converse, things he was used to wearing.

Barry opened the door, feeling sorry for himself, and immediately dodged a wet washrag thrown at this face. Barry ducked, looked at the washrag on the floor, and took a moment to process where it came from.

"Shawna," Barry said, "I'm sorry I'm late."

Shawna glared at him from the bar, arms crossed. "I have studying, Allen, and you know what I don't get to do when I'm doing your half of the work?"

"Study," Barry picked up the washrag. He did feel guilty, but he knew it wasn't his fault. There'd been a car crash on 14th street that had nearly been a ten car pileup, and would’ve been if the Flash hadn't run in to stop it. "I'm sorry."

"Be on time, jeez," Shawna said, though the initial bite was mostly gone.

No one else was in the bar yet, it had only technically opened a few minutes ago. Barry moved quickly over to his side of the bar, checking the glasses and the supply, making sure he knew how much was left of everything, if the second shift had messed up the order he kept things in. They had, of course. They'd moved all the more popular drinks closer to the bar, the glasses now separated by convenience and not type.

Barry really wished he could just use his superspeed to quick push everything back to order. He liked the drinks organized alphabetically and by type, and the glasses each in their own section. It helped make everything flow smoother, and it just-

"Not going to say anything?" Shawna said.

Barry blinked, looking up. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Why're you dressed as?" Shawna said, the sentence almost sounding like one word.

"What?" Barry said, not sure what she was saying.

"Why. You. Dress. Nice," Shawna said, slower.

It wasn't the speed that she spoke that was the issue, but Barry sighed; it was just one of the many times he wished he could just speak out about who he was instead of having to be annoyed. "My friend is taking me speed dating," Barry said, "we're getting off work at nine, Len said."

"Yeah, he wants me to get some sleep," Shawna said.

"For your test?"

"No, he needs me and Lisa to steal this stuffed polar bear from the Museum in the morning.  No idea why," Shawna said, "he won't ever tell me what he's doing with things. I think only Lisa and Mick know."

"A polar bear?" Barry said, not sure what the stuffed polar bear could be for. Was Len building an evil lair? Because that didn't really seem like him, owning a bar seemed to fit his personality more.

"No idea," Shawna shrugged. She put her elbows up on the bar, holding a coffee mug in front of her.

Barry suddenly noticed she was wearing the same earrings Mark had asked him about. He decided not to mention it.

"You should tell everyone you work for Captain Cold," Shawna said with a smirk. "That your coworkers are metahumans. You look so sweet, you need to have a dangerous vibe."

Barry snorted. "Yeah, I don't think I could ever manage a 'dangerous vibe'."

"Girls like a bad boy," Shawna said, "boys to if you- not to ah, presume."

"What?" Barry stared at her. He swallowed. "Um, what makes you say-?

Shawna dismissed it with one hand. "Just trying to be equal opportunistic, not offending. I mean, you do know the difference between carmine and burgundy red..." She lifted her coffee to her mouth, looking up at the roof like she was waiting.

"I'm bisexual," Barry said.

Shawna grinned. "I knew it, or I suspected. I mean. I assumed maybe, possibly."

Barry's face felt hot, and he took one of the glasses and a clean washrag, cleaning it so he'd have something to do with his hands.

"Do you think Hartley is cute? He's single," Shawna said after a long moment of silence, "'cause if you're looking. I like Hartley, he's a good guy."

"He tried to throw a bunch of people off a bridge," Barry said.

Shawna shrugged. _"You_ work here, you know," she said, sounding angry. He looked suddenly at her hand, picking at an invisible scab. And then she said, her voice softer, "I tried to kill a woman with a shovel, once."

"I know," Barry said, before he could think.

"She told you?" Shawna kept picking at her scab, her voice quiet. "S' kinda her fault. That doctor of yours was working with some secret organization, whoever controls the Flash. They locked me up."

"Doesn't mean you should kill a person," Barry said. Then something clicked. "You, you think there's an organization that controls the Flash?"

"Yeah," Shawna said, "he gets to places so quickly, he knows what happens sometimes before police, and he talks to someone on his bluetooth. I heard it."

"Oh," Barry said. He glanced at the clock.

"I'm not crazy," Shawna said, "Hartley thinks I'm right."

"I don't think you're crazy," Barry said.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a long time, two people came into the bar, one ordered a beer and left and the other sat by himself with whiskey on the rocks, nursing it for a good forty minutes before getting another.  It was that long until Shawna spoke again, about something other that the basketball game playing on the screen. "I'm not sorry," Shawna said.

"What?" Barry's mind was stuck in anticipation for later that night.

"I think you're friend should have expected it, considering what she did to me," Shawna said, "but if I see her again I won't do that. I'll forgive if she doesn't tell the Flash where I am."

"Oh, I guess-" Barry started to say, and Shawna interrupted.

"I don't want our friendship to get too weird, but I mean, crazy things have happened ever since I got these powers, but I like you, Barry. So she can apologize if she happens to see me and I’ll consider accepting it," Shawna said.

"I'll tell her," Barry promised.

"Thank you," Shawna said, her voice sounding small. She coughed into her hand and turned away.

* * *

Len was sitting at a stool on the bar, a cold beer in his hand since all the non-Rogues staff had gone home and he’d come in too late to order something from Barry.  He had come in late on purpose, the last several nights he’d spent, according to Lisa, “way too much time badgering Allen for drinks, Lenny.  Lenny, he’s going to think you need to go to rehab.  Lenny.”  

Basically, Lisa and Mick were his best people and they were far more interested in Len’s love life then they work he really needed them to get onto.  Despite the small power vacuum created by the Flash’s activities, and the heightened fear-mongering of metahumans by police chiefs, there were plenty of things they needed to worry about.  Len building a territory for himself wasn’t going to be unnoticed, no matter how clear he was about the metahumans on his team.  Work was crucial at this point.

So when Len felt something hit his back, he almost punched whoever touched him.  He was tense, anxious body on edge.  Instead he just jumped, turned sharply around and glared.  

“Lis- listen,” Mick grumbled.  His hand grabbed the back of Len’s neck, squeezing in what was probably meant to be a friendly gesture.  “Listen, you bas- bastard, you listening?”  
"S' important," Mick said, loudly though he was leaning forward and his breath hot on Len's ear as if he was whispering.  

"How drunk are you?" Len said as he casually leaned away from Mick.

"Not too bad," Mick said, "'ll sober. Up. Listen. S' about Al."

"Al?" Len said. He looked behind him, at Shawna and Mark. Shawna was looking at them, curious, obviously listening while Mark was talking about something she clearly wasn't paying attention to.

"Allen," Mick said, "Bart."

"Barry," Len said.

Mick pounded his fist once onto the counter, enough that Len's drink almost fell over. Len grabbed it quickly enough to prevent it. "Yes," Mick announced, "Bart-"

"Fucking hell," Len mumbled.

"He's going out. On a date."

Len felt his jaw tense. "It's not my problem."

"No, no no no, Shawna says you need to go," Mick said, "Shawna told Mark, Mark told me, he's a bicycle."

"He's a what?"

"A bisixial," Mick said, "look you, the Red Robin in Keystone Square. Al's meeting up with someone, some ex or something, Shawna knows."

"Mick, just say it all at once before I freeze your balls off," Len snarled at him, patience wearing thin.

"Allen's off speed dating, so he's single and he's playing both fields so you should go 'fore he finds some fucking idiot chartered accountant. It's a chance, so 'm gonna take you or Lise'll kill me," Mick said, managing to reign himself in enough to say it all.

"You can't say 'bisexual' but you can say 'chartered accountant'," Len said, monotone.

"That," Mick pointed to his nose, "that's the word."

Len took a deep breath, and let it out like a stressed whistle between grinding teeth and a clenched jaw. "I'll drive," he said slowly, sitting up.

"I'll text Lise," Mick said to himself.

"You put your phone in the oven this morning," Len reminded him.

"Oh shit," Mick paused, "Yeah. I did."

"Get yourself some water and bread," Len ordered.

* * *

Len hadn't even walked inside when he knew he shouldn't be there. The place was slightly Italian in its presentation, a chain restaurant that was desperately reacting to the overactive and worried (metahuman's and frequent disasters had heavily increased the dating scene as of late) young, single people of the twin cities. Mick took one look at a sign for homemade meatballs and walked inside without even waiting for Len to park.

Len locked Mick's car, a Lincoln Continental, and glared at the two nearest people out of habit. He wasn't even dressed for this, he was wearing his leather jacket and his jeans had a gasoline stain under his left knee almost a foot long.

Shit, this was just... dumb. This was so stupid, and Mick was already inside causing whatever havoc, so Len had to at least go in and grab him. He shuffled his way to the door, hands in his pocket. He wanted a cigarette but Len never carried any on him, he always smoked whatever Mick had.

So he steeled himself, and walked over to the door with confidence.

The restaurant had low lighting, not unbearable but the type of low, reddish light that inspired drunkenness. At least for Len. There was a low hum of nervous activity, it was loud enough inside so Len knew he could sneak out before Barry saw if he had to.

"Welcome," a young woman in casual dark clothes said, she had a name tag that said her name was Karla and she was the hostess, "we have a special on appetizers and our martini's tonight. If you're coming for the event, please sign in with Hannah our coordinator to the right." She looked at Len, smiling brightly like she'd rather be somewhere else.

Len nodded, and moved to the right to find that goddamn coordinator.

There was a woman with dyed pink streaks in her hair who was putting name tags on a group of people and color coding them. Beside her was a table with a sign in sheet.

Len did not see Mick, but the last name on the sheet was Smokey Bear. "Shit," Len said to himself.

"Can I help you," said a voice at his elbow, the coordinator.

No, Len thought. And then he just gave into it. He was here. Mick was here. Barry was probably here. It was just going to happen. "I'm just signing in," Len said.

"Awesome!" The coordinator, oh right, her name was Hannah, she relayed the instructions for how the night was going to go, and Len paid attention although he didn’t actually care.

"Thank you for coming out tonight! I hope you have a good time," she said. Then hesitated, looking at the sheet.

Len picked it up, snorted at Mick's name, and wrote Jack F. "Gay," he said to Hannah the coordinator.

Her smile wavered and she grabbed a paper with blue bordered name tags. She wrote 'Jack F' down quickly, and handed it to Len. "We start in thirty minutes, feel free to get a drink or order something to eat to support our host," she said, curt.

"Thanks," Len said. If this ended up some plot from Lisa and Mick to get him to find someone else, he was going to freeze Mick's balls off.

Len immediately went over to the bar.

* * *

Barry wasn't really enjoying himself, not nearly as much as Caitlin at least. The moment they'd arrived she'd bought two shots of tequila and one of fireball, a long island iced tea, and a pina colada for each of them. By the time the first round began, she was grinning like crazy and flirting like hell with anyone she was sat with.

She had the brightest smile on her face when she'd inform people, "It's _Doctor_ Caitlin Snow" which would have been obnoxious on any other person, but with Caitlin's charm it only served to endear every man she sat with to her. Barry didn't have nearly that natural attraction. If he could get drunk, it would at least be bearable.

The first person he sat with was a beautiful, Latina girl he was instantly interested in, but she offered to buy him a drink at the bar later and the moment Barry mentioned he didn't drink she suddenly found her nail art to be the most fascinating thing. There was a man afterward, who seemed nice. He was a thousand times more nervous though than Barry, and their collective awkwardness filled the eight minutes with silence peppered with small talk.

Barry talked with three other girls, two of who were far, far out of his league and the other who seemed absolutely great, and who almost kindled a hope for the night, until she told him that he was great, and she was bi, but she was actually only interested in meeting girls that night.

Thank goodness there was a ten minute break afterward, because Barry needed a moment of un-tense conversation with Caitlin. The moment the free time was announced (and the host highly encouraged all the singles to get a drink at the bar during the break) he went straight over to her.

"It's great," Caitlin whispered at him, breathless, when he'd finally pushed his way past the crowd at the bar to her.

"Really?" Barry said. It came out more bitter than he wanted, he didn't want to ruin Caitlin's night.

Thankfully, she didn't notice. "I never, never did this kind of a thing," Caitlin told him.

"Well, me neither," Barry said. The music suddenly jumped in volume, Rihanna sang about rain and umbrellas. Barry instinctively glanced at the window, to comment about if it was or wasn't raining (since it would give him something else to talk about) and he stared. "Caitlin?" Barry said, looking at the window.

"Mmmm," Caitlin said, as she struggled to put a straw in her mouth. "Whiskey and cran-Barry," she giggled, and punched Barry's arm.

It actually hurt, but Barry'd had a lot worse and he was used to Caitlin's unexpected strength. "It's-" He glanced back at the window, worried but- he couldn't mess up Caitlin's night, but if she saw-

"Oh, yes," Caitlin said, chipper. She grabbed Barry's arm, pressed her head against his shoulder, and if Barry hadn't interfered with some superspeed she would have spilled her whiskey cranberry all over his shirt. "Oo," she said, pausing as Barry held her glass carefully upright, "I think I pregamed too hard."

"You were nervous," Barry said. And it was fine, Caitlin deserved to go out, meet new men and get wasted. (Barry deserved the same, sadly.)

"I'm a widow, I'm twenty-eight, fuck? Right?" Caitlin nodded at the window again. "Him."

And Barry knew she was seeing exactly what he was seeing. Mick Rory, in a black v-neck and suspenders, standing outside the window, smoking and apparently entertaining two female smokers.

As Barry watched, one of them grabbed Mick's bicep and feigned shock. Barry rolled his eyes.

"Even, look Barry, Barry, hey, even people like, Barry, look at me," Caitlin said. Barry looked at her. "Even people like that gonna go out sometime and find people? This event was in the Central City Picture News las- week," she paused, "so lots of people came out."

Barry'd assumed Caitlin would be more unsettled, considering she was the one Mick Rory and Leonard Snart had strapped to a bomb. Caitlin had a surprising strength in her though, an ability to bounce back, but he still asked her, "Do you want to go?" just in case.

Caitlin nodded at Mick Rory, and then mumbled, "He's so... so... manly. Like sandpaper."

Barry figured that was a 'no'.

"Why're u so weird?" Caitlin pushed her face off of Barry's. "You see 'em every day."

"I just didn't expect to see Mick Rory here," Barry told her.

Caitlin leaned forward like she was imparting a great wisdom, "Even bad guys wanna get laid, cran-Barry."

"Thanks," Barry said.

Caitlin jumped up, "Oh! I forgot," she said, handing her drink to Barry. "I need to pee."

"Okay," Barry said, "I'll just-" and she was gone, "stand here. At a bar. Where I can't drink."

* * *

"Nice to meet you..." Barry said, squinting at a nametag with a name he couldn't quite read.

"Brienne," the girl said, flipping her blonde hair with perfectly manicured green nails, "they spelled it wrong. I fixed it. Everyone always thinks it's Brianne or Brianna; it's so annoying." She pursed pretty, plump lips with disappointment.

"Tell me about it," Barry said with a smile, "no one ever spells 'Bartholomew' right."

Brienne frowned at him. "'Bartholomew', is that jewish?"

"Uh, yeah?" Barry said.

She didn't say a word to him after that, and Barry was actually grateful not to talk to someone for once.

* * *

"Hey, _feel_ this," the bearded, hipster, Abercrombie model said. He gestured to the top of his bicep. He had a beanie on, covering long hair, and a deep v neck t shirt and an open vest. His hair was black, his skin tanned, his beard slightly redder than his hair. He looked like every person's handsome lumberjack fantasy (well, minus Monty Python's) and his name was Ax.

He would have been amazing, if he hadn't been asking Barry to feel his muscles for the entire time they'd been talking. Barry hadn't even introduced himself yet.

_"Solid,"_ Ax said, as Barry reluctantly felt his bicep. "I'm on an all _protein_ diet," he added, enthusiastically gesturing to his chest with his thumb as he spoke, " _bacon, chicken, eggs_ , _all-meat,_ all-animal diet. High cholesterol, it _builds_ muscle, more fat, more to burn, better results. And _that's_ a tip."

"That's... great," Barry said. God, if he could only switch out this beautiful man's personality with anything tolerable, he'd be set.

"You work out?" Ax asked, the first pause in his lecture where he actually acknowledged Barry's existence.

"I run," Barry told him.

"You gotta _lift,"_ Ax told him, "cardio _ruins_ muscle growth. You need to get on a strict, _strict_ all-protein diet."

"Okay," Barry said, looking at the clock. When would this end?

* * *

And then Caitlin was sitting in front of him, and after giggling for an entire minute about that, she provided him a welcome break from this carnival of awkwardness by regaling him with the story of some apparently suave, handsome man who'd rescued her from a horrible chat with a snooty neurosurgeon. Apparently his name, which she said amid fits of giggling, was 'so funny' and she bought them both shots of fireball which was hilarious for some reason to her.

Barry had four more people to go through before the night was over, thank god, and the structured chatting of the evening turned into a regular old bar scene. And then he could (literally) run out of there, although it was starting to look like he'd need to keep an eye on Caitlin.

She did seem to be having a good time, and maybe that's just what she needed. To break up her routine for a night. Barry had the Flash to break him out of ruts, Caitlin didn't have anything that extreme.

He glanced over at her the next time they were changing tables, she caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up that he returned.

* * *

By the time the night was over, Barry was ready to go to sleep and try to forget everything. A lot of moments hadn't been particularly terrible, a couple people were pleasant enough and he had three numbers in his phone. It was something, but nothing felt... right.

It seemed too casual to go out with someone like this, to just go and pick something. It was just... odd, to meet someone he hardly knew and date them. Artificial even.

It just wasn't... it wasn't like him. This was never how Barry pictured meeting someone. He was far too traditionally romantic for his own good, he pictured romance like Jack and Rose, Elizabeth and Darcy, Leia and Han, something with... with adventure, and struggle, and pining. There...

He'd loved Iris. He'd imagined himself like some sort of sentimental romantic poet, falling in and moving on with love, always turning back to Iris like destiny. He never was the kind of guy to think of love like a backdrop, or an ends-to-a-means. Love was it, love was what he wanted to find. Love should be...

Exciting. Love should be exciting. That's what was missing.

The pretty mayor's intern, the nice private school teacher, the yoga instructor, they were all good. They were numbers in his phone if he needed it. But they felt like loose change.

Barry frowned at the table, watching as Caitlin laughed her head off at something a handsome doctor of theology was telling her. He hoped, at least, she had a nice time.

He needed a breath of fresh air, the bar was still cramped with mingling, excited singles and now the pumped up notes of an enthusiastic local band. Barry walked to the door, knowing he would be back for a moment to bring Caitlin home, but she could handle herself in the meantime.

There were a lot of people outside, a couple was making out against a window and Barry stepped out around them quickly. Most people were on phones, waiting for their DD or Uber or a taxi service, but there was a group of people standing around some tables outside, smoking. The smell was masked by the gasoline hum of the city and the crisp, tense winter chill, so Barry moved over to there to get out of the way. He stuck his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath out of his nose.

It was better outside. But actually? What he really needed to clear his head was a run.

Barry nodded to himself, about to sneak away around the bar for a quick jog when the air around him shifted. Someone moved over next to him, leaned against the wall, and Barry looked up in surprise. And his eyes widened in surprise.

And then he slapped himself on the forehead because of course Leonard Snart was here if Mick Rory was.

"Had a good night?" Snart asked.

Barry let out a bark of laughter, which then turned into a snort that he covered with a cough into his jacket. "Uh," he said.

Leonard Snart looked, coarse. His face had grown a shadow around his neck, his hair was slightly overgrown compared to how he normally kept it, he had on a worn leather jacket and his jeans had a stain of gasoline on them. In his left hand was a beer, the bar's winter brew, and his right hand flicked a cigarette under the sole of his shoe as he crushed it. With a shrug, he roled up jacket sleeves revealing tattoo sleeves underneath, and shifted his weight on the window.

I am not thinking what I'm thinking right now, Barry thought to himself. "Fair. Uh, it was," he cleared his throat, "it's been good. You?"

Len frowned at him. "Me?"

"Yeah how'd-" Barry cleared his throat again. "How'd it go? For you? With guys, I mean."

Len had rather piercing intense blue eyes. Eyes that squinted at Barry, a bit confused, until he shrugged his shoulders. "Alright," Len said.

Barry nodded, nervous, and looked down at his shirt. He noticed a wrinkle in the middle, from having sat hunched forward for too long.

"Some guy's been hanging off on me all night," Len said, quietly, face tilted toward Barry as he spoke, "think I might have to shoot his feet inta' a block of ice to get away from here."

"Really? Which one?" Barry said, interested.

"That Ax, guy," Len said, nodding over to the hipster gym-aholic Barry'd spoken with earlier.

"That guy," Barry recognized.

"'kept asking me to feel his arms," Len said, amused.

Barry would have laughed out loud if he wasn’t starting to feel tense.  This was Captain Cold he was talking to, after all.  Aka, the (gang? What was the proper… Rogue? Yes.), aka the Rogue boss he was working for.  Barry couldn’t let himself get caught off guard, not even for a moment. Not even when Len shifted, leaning slightly closer toward him, the tattoos on his arms opened to the air and fascinating with the low orange light of the bar and the continuous flickering illumination of carlights flashing by and lighters in people’s hands.

For the first time of the night, Barry was glad he was sober. There was no telling what he’d be doing right now if he wasn’t.

Yikes, Barry thought, suddenly hyper-aware of the limited space between him and Len. “It’s… uh, he asked me to do that to,” Barry said, “I don’t know, I wasn’t sure if that was normal.”

“Why would it be?” Len asked, his eyes on the latest car that drove up.  One of his hands dropped to his waist and then, as a drunk pair of women opened the car and one began complaining about the wait, he brought the hand back up.

“Do you have your gun on you?” Barry asked, before he could stop himself.

Len, thankfully, didn’t blink. “Not the cold gun,” he said, casual.

And that was so fucking cool Barry’s jaw nearly dropped. He coughed into his hand. “I uh, I didn’t see you all night,” he said.

“I saw you,” Len said.

“Oh,” Barry swallowed. “Do you uh- do you normally go to these things?”

“Mick dragged me here,” Len told him, “he’s wasted right now, it’d be hilarious if I didn’t have to watch him.”

Barry’s eyes widened, feeling the speed suddenly buzzing at his feet. “Is he dangerous?” Barry asked.

“I took all his lighters,” Len replied, “his gun’s in the car. Right now he’s most in danger of pissing on himself or vomiting on a girl. Do you?”

“What?” Barry blinked.

“Come to these things?” Len clarified.

“Oh, no, definitely not.” Barry said, adding after a beat, “Not that there’s anything wrong with this type. Of a thing. It’s just not really… my type of thing.”

“What is your type of thing?” Len asked.

“It’s _not_ romantic,” Barry said without thinking.

“It isn’t?” Len asked, sounding detatched.

Barry’s face flooded with embarrassment.  “I mean, meeting someone in a bar, isn’t what anyone really thinks of when they think about romance right?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Len asked him.

“Uh,” Barry had no idea what to answer, and in the second that followed he jumped into superspeed. A convenient help for awkward conversations, to let him figure out what to say.

In a moment, the cars stopped, the noises turned off, the flickering lights burned on or off as a solid shape and everything skidded to the closest thing to a halt Barry could manage. And Len kept leaning forward, talking to him, and Barry looked at those eyes for a long moment before shuffling himself a little bit away to breathe.

“Is that a normal question?” Barry asked himself, frowning.  No. Yes?  Well, maybe not for a boss to employee but for mutual acquaintance to acquaintance while at a speed-dating event? Sure.

But it kind of sounded like, “That kind of sounds like…”

And then Barry felt a bit weird, but he moved cautiously closer to Leonard Snart. Walking like a mouse approaching a snake, he shuffled his feet closer, approaching from the front so he didn’t have to look in the man’s eyes.  When people were ‘frozen’ (as close to frozen as Barry could manage to get other people), they had this strange mix of lifelessness and humanity, too real to be a wax museum figure but too frozen to be anything human.

Len Snart kind of looked like a criminal, there was something in the hardness and intensity of how he behaved, the unpredictableness of his personality at times, that just… screamed a man who didn’t have to be beholded to people. Then there were the tattoos, Barry could only see the ones at the tops of his arms, they were sleeves that weren’t sleeves, not an inch of space uncovered but there was a variety of different things. His right arm had a pair of figure skates, snowflakes, some roman numbers Barry didn’t know what they met, on his left was a gray tattoo that was turned to the side so he could only catch a part of it, and on the underside of that arm was written the name ‘Lisa’ in flowing letters.  There was such an ‘I don’t fucking care what you think’ nature to him, to his demeanor, the grease stain on his jeans, the jacket, the shorn hair and budding shadow around his neck. The fact Barry was 100% sure Len was armed.

Yeah, Barry thought confidently, stepping backward back into the space he had left. There was no doubt. Absolutely no doubt in his mind. Captain Cold was not, and would never, be flirting with Barry Allen. He was just being friendly.


	7. The Theory of Knowing and Being Used

Len slammed the end of his gun into the door, smashing the lock open with considerable effort. The crash was jarring, the impact stung from his wrist to his shoulders, but the resounding clinking of the lock onto the ground was satisfying enough to bring a grin to his face.

Lisa looked at him, and a similar grin echoed on her face. “Finally,” she said, excited.

Len raised a finger on his free hand to his lips, shushing her. There wasn’t much need for silence, doubtless the guard would have heard the smash which, after all, was what Len wanted, but with that new guy (he had some codename but Len kept referring to him as ‘Flute Glasses’ in his head since the new guy hadn’t yet earned a position in his Rogues) having hacked the security cameras to play a loop and having avoided all the security measures, they were sitting pretty right now. They definitely had enough time to get what they came for and hand the important things to Shawna for her to disappear with before the big finale.

The Flash, of course.

Shawna wasn’t exactly happy about being utilized like this again, Len could tell. She wasn’t the most enthusiastic about the criminal activities, but that was a big reason why this specific case was important. Len needed Shawna, she was insanely convenient to have on his team, and her presence not only ensured Mark’s loyalty, but she’d brought in Flute Glasses too.

“Door needs to be open,” Len said. “Heatwave.”

Shawna was standing behind Lisa, and the two women stepped aside to let Mick go forward. He had a lever in his hands and lined it up to the hole in the door where the lock had been, then Lisa and Mick grabbed to sides of it, yanking swiftly. It had been well practiced, and the operation went smoothly and quickly.  The door was pried open.

“Ladies first,” Len said, gesturing to Shawna. “Everyone stand in front of your number.”

Len watched as Lisa blew a kiss to the camera as she stepped into the room, and Shawna ducked her face down, adjusting her mask again.  

Once they broke the locks—the codes for all the boxes had already been electronically bypassed thanks to Flute Glasses—and they each opened their respective safety deposit boxes, there would be a very short amount of time to throw the goods in Shawna’s bag before the alarms would ring. There was no shutting off the alarm system inside the vault, it was on a separate system from the rest of the bank. It would have been more difficult to gain access to that system than to break into the vault itself.

Len stepped into the room and copied Lisa, blowing a kiss to the camera. The guard might not be able to see it now, but the police would certainly pull up a hard copy of the break in.

“In position, Heatwave,” Len reminded.

Mick grumbled, standing and waiting. Lisa’s gun would fill up her and Mick’s locks, and with the bayonet-esque attachment she’d be able to turn them; Len was going to freeze and break his and Shawna’s.

“In position?” Len asked, voice loud and authoritative.

“Yeah,” Mick grumbled.

“Yes,” Shawna said, an unexpected strength in her voice.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Lisa saluted.

Len smirked, “Alright. Three. Two. One.” Action, he thought, and he pressed the trigger.

* * *

It was a failure, Barry thought, sour and almost sick. He’d been outmaneuvered and played again. Sure, he’d done… well, everyone kept praising how he’d handled everything. He’d fought off Captain Cold, Heatwave, and the Golden Glider, he’d recovered the stolen artifacts the three of them had on them, and he’d managed to contain Heatwave in police custody except the police cruiser had been knocked over by a miniaturized flood and Heatwave disappeared.  But the majority of the stolen safety-deposit boxes were still missing, including one belonging to the mayor and a world-famous surgeon who was extremely upset.

Barry sat miserably on his coach, his hand now slowly moving in and out of a huge bowl of potato chips, putting them in his mouth automatically. Cisco had his hand on the remote, pausing again, while Caitlin and Joe squinted at the footage.  Eddie was going over Mark Mardon’s file in the corner, frowning.

Cisco had brought a copy of the bank camera footage, after having recovered the hard, true copy from the security footage and not the corrupted stream.

Caitlin’s living room was just a mess, even worse than before, with all the new information that they’d received.  The reports of what had been stolen were what Eddie was looking at right now, trying to find a connection between that and the Rogues they knew were a part of it.

Which was… all of them.

Captain Cold, Heatwave, and Golden Glider were there the entire time. Peekaboo had taken the goods and left before the Flash arrived. Weather Wizard had shown up, apparently waiting in the background (possibly the source of the hail rain that had been a nuisance) to turn the tide when the Rogues had needed it. All-in-all... it was a failure for Team Flash.

Barry brought another chip to his mouth.

“Can you tell us which safety-deposit box each Rogue opened?” Joe asked, tapping at a list on a notepad in front of them.  “It might help us figure out what each one was after.”

“Sure,” Cisco said, rewinding. He recited four numbers to Joe, who listened to them with a frown.

“Barry,” Eddie said, jolting Barry out of a moment of stupor.

Barry suddenly was aware of the chip crumbs on his Flash uniform.  He wiped at them, then lifted his hand to wipe his mouth on his sleeve and winced.  His whole body still felt like a giant bruise.  “Yeah?” He said, managing to avoid sounding too bitter.

“Maybe we should team up with someone. With Firestorm off in Pittsburg for Dr. Stein’s work, it’s just you and these Rogues. We should ask Green Arrow if he can let us borrow someone,” Eddie said.

That just… felt intensely annoying. Barry closed his eyes for a quick moment just to keep from getting angry.  “Oliver’s got his hands full with Darhk.”

“We’ve got our hands full here too,” Eddie said.

“’We’?” Barry asked.

"We have a lead," Caitlin jumped in, "on the Rogues. We're sorting out the details, but-"

"What is it?" Joe interrupted.

Cisco perked up. "You mean Operation B.A.R.?"

Caitlin glared at him. "Yes," she said pointedly, indicating for him to be quiet.

Joe frowned, at Barry, then Caitlin, then Barry, then Cisco, and finally at Barry again, "You don't plan on telling Eddie or I about it?"

"Not until we have uh, not until we know for sure," Cisco stumbled.

"We are perfectly capable of doing this on our own, Mr. West," Caitlin told him, firmly.

"I know you are," Joe said, only to Caitlin.

Barry bristled at that, but didn't say anything. He knew his ego, along with the rest of him, was bruised and he definitely didn't want to say something he regretted. Cisco, however, sputtered a half-serious indignant joke and put a brief smile on everyone's face.

"Is it dangerous?" Eddie wondered.

"What isn't dangerous?" Barry asked.

"All the more reason not to put yourself in unnecessary danger, Barry," Joe said, firm, "you can't be putting Cisco or Caitlin at risk, and you shouldn't be doing it for yourself either."

"Our plan," Caitlin said, stealing a side glance at Barry, "is working fine. No one's hurt. We promise, we'll tell you if something goes wrong or right."

Barry stuffed his face with a mouthful of chips to have an excuse not to look Joe in the eye.

"Fine," Joe said.

Eddie looked hurt, glancing between Caitlin, Barry, and Cisco. “Joe and I can help, you know,” he told them.

“If they want to do it on their own, then fine,” Joe said, stiff, obviously not thinking it was fine.  Cisco coughed into his shirt.  “Maybe your lead will pan out into nothing.”

“Maybe,” Caitlin agreed.  

“Ugh,” Cisco said loudly, shrugging his arm over his shoulder, “this atmosphere is tense.”

Barry figured that was his cue from Cisco to change the subject. “How are Martinez and O’brien handling things?” He asked.

“They aren’t exactly happy about losing you, and getting Cisco as the ‘executive metahuman scientific consultant’,” Joe said, “They think it’s some corporate overhaul scheme, with Cisco having worked at Star Labs before.”

“Really?” Barry blinked, “but they never liked me. They hated me since I got the job right out of college.”

“And you earned the job,” Joe said, a well-worn reassurance, before continuing, “they don’t think it’s fair how they lost you. They know the injuries weren’t your fault.”

“They don’t seem to get that I’d have been hired regardless of if you worked there or not,” Cisco said, annoyed.

“They don’t like me when I worked there, but now that I was let go they miss me?” Barry repeated, not sure whether to laugh or be angry.

“Basically,” Joe said with a shrug. “How’s the bar, speaking of?”

Caitlin stood up, a loud clatter as the clipboard on her lap fell. “Looks like we’ll be here awhile!” she said, suddenly seeming breathless. “I’ll order us food.”

“Can we have pizz-”

Barry jumped, speaking over Eddie as fast as he could to interrupt him, “can we get Chinese?”

“Yes!” Cisco said, rushed, “Chinese sounds great. I would love some General Tso Chicken.”

“Okay,” Caitlin said, “I’ll go look through my menus.” She stepped out of the room, and Eddie looked at Cisco and Barry, confused.

“What’s wrong with pizza?” Eddie asked.

“Ronnie,” Cisco mumbled. Eddie’s mouth opened with recognition, and then his eyes dropped to the file he was reaching, shoulders hunched over.  

Joe turned to Barry. “You’re still looking for a different job, right? I don’t like the idea of you being a bartender, you’re way overqualified for a job like that. You should be working in a science.”

“Yeah, I uh, I’m still looking for openings,” Barry said, nervous.

“Good,” Joe said, giving Barry a suspicious look.  Thankfully, Caitlin came back with a menu and distracted them all.

* * *

“You’re not worried. At all.” Lisa looked at Len, eyes narrowed. She slammed her hand down on the table, which didn’t even get Len to flinch since he was used to her doing that. “Why?”

“Why would I be worried?” Len said. His hands were black with grease, there was a wrench in his hand and on the table in front of him was a macabre collection of gears and wires, with an open backed machine and a motherboard, with a blowtorch on the farthest end of the table. In Len’s lap was a piece of paper, printed out from the internet, with the step-by-step instructions for what he was making along with handwritten notes from Flute Glasses.  Flute Glasses had offered to build the contraption himself, but Len wasn’t open to the thought of someone who hadn’t earned his trust building something so important.

There were though, a lot of projects on his mind. Flute Glasses had apparently discovered his technological savvy was worth more to Len than his lacking criminal expertise (a tip secretly from Len, who had passed it to Shawna who had passed it to James). Len still had a lot of time to pull the, admittedly genius, man along on a string before letting him into the group, and Len planned to string Rathaway along for a while. The man’s attitude got on Len’s nerves.

Though, he thought, as he wiped his hands on his dirty rag (the action was little more than a habit, at this point), it was a bit nice to have someone ‘like’ Hartley Rathaway around. Len had never actually been in any criminal organization or gang where there’d been another gay man around, and he’d been in plenty for one lifetime.

He’d have cut off a hand to have had that companionship when he was younger, and though it came late, it still did come. Len was actually looking forward to having Hartley Rathaway as one of his Rogues.

“Lenny,” Lisa said, stomping her foot. Len looked up immediately, seeing the pouting expression on his sister’s face.

“Lisa,” Len said, calmly, “everything’s fine. The Rogues are officially ‘metahuman problems’ and the city’s police are scrambling to figure how to deal with us. Even if they knew all of our safe houses, they-”

Lisa walked around the table to Len’s side and threw her arms around Len’s neck. “I’m not talking about the police,” she said, as if that would be obvious, “I want to know about Allen.”

Len pushed her away with his elbow, so he wouldn’t get grease on her, and frowned. “I already told you what happened.”

“I want to know what you’re going to do, now,” Lisa said.

“You want me to ask you what to do,” Len translated, “but I already know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t,” Lisa insisted.

“Yes, I think I do-”

“No, you don’t,” she interrupted.

“Can I get back to work, ‘Lise?” he asked, annoyed.

Lisa nodded, but contradicted that by sitting on the table. “I came up with a date,” she said.

Len pinched his nose, not caring that the black grease would get on his face. “I haven’t asked him on a date,” he growled.

“Obviously, you offer to drive him home and right before he gets out of the car you tell him,” Lisa stared up at the ceiling, clasping her hands together, “‘Oh, Bartholomew, you regular little minx, I’ve wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re sexy in that dude way that I like. You make me lose all track of time and sense, please, honor me by granting me the right to take you out on a Saturday night. You make my ice cold, frozen heart melt.’” And, after waiting a beat for that to settle, Lisa added, casually, “but in your words.”

Len sat back, crossed his arms, and waited.

Lisa had a triumphant grin as she continued. “So, here’s the deal. Allen likes science, and you know what’s romantic and scientific? A private visit to a planetarium. It just so happens, the McDowell Institute’s planetarium does regular, public monthly telescope viewings. So, you cajole, pay, bride, and threaten your way to a night for two with the stars and wine and cheese. He won’t be able to resist.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Len said.

“It’s a great plan,” Lisa said strongly, “a really good plan. I told you I know romance.” She swung her leg and tapped him in the knee. “Say you’ll consider it.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Len told her.

“Liar,” Lisa said, her playfulness suddenly having the quality of plastic, “promise me?”

Len didn’t say anything in reply, but Lisa didn’t wait for an answer either. She walked off, quiet as a mouse as always, moving up the stairs two at a time before slamming the door shut.  Len leaned back over the desk, shifting his notes, and for a long amount of time he managed to narrow his attention solely to the project at hand.  He only moved up after an hour, to go to the thermostat and move the temperature down five degrees. Beyond that, he could ignore the aching in his knees and back, hardly even shifting his weight as he focused on the task.  

He couldn’t say how long it was before someone came down the stairs, but when he finally heard the door open he saw Mick and knew it had been at least three hours.

Mick was glaring daggers at him.  Len immediately knew why, and sighed, setting down what he was working on.

“It’s too cold,” Mick growled at him.

Len met Mick’s eyes, calm, and didn’t say anything.

He could see a vein nearly bursting on Mick’s forehead. “Change the fuckin’ temperature,” Mick said, teeth snapping as he spoke.

Len lifted the paper to his eyes, reading the final piece of instructions. “Nope.”

“It’s cold!” Mick yelled.

“Put on a sweater,” Len said back, angry.

“MY FUCKING FACE IS COLD!”

“I’m working!” Len yelled back.

Mick’s eyes flashed. “I’m changing it,” he said, stern.

“You change it, you’re fired,” Len threatened.

Mick’s entire body was practically embroiled with rage, his arms shaking with tension and anger. “Fuck you, Snart,” he growled, stepping backward, unadulterated hatred on his face, “fuck you, fuck you fucker, fuck yourself, fuck you.”

Len reached for the nearest thing he could spare, the wrench, and stood up, prepared to throw it at Mick to keep him from changing the centralized air temperature, but Mick actually left.  Funny, the arguments about that tended to last a lot longer.

Len dismissed it, figuring Mick was just going to let the subject go, which was a very serious mistake that he realized he should never have made when the door opened again and Len looked up to see Barry walking down the steps.

And Len’s arms were black from grease from his hands to elbows, his clothes were old and gross and there was definitely grease on his face so Barry should not be down here, he was almost done.  Len felt a sudden rush of nervousness, like a bomb going off in the back of his chest, and he nearly jumped up, but he held it in and managed to talk.  “What are you doing down here?” Len said, and the words came out angry, incredibly angry, which was not at all how he’d meant them to and Len could see Barry freeze, on the steps, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I’m supposed to work on the safe but-” Barry started to say, and then Len, not insanely pissed with himself, interrupted.

“It’s fine, you’re fine, come… just, you’re fine.”  Len waved Barry down, turned his head over his paper to hide his face.

He needed to wipe the grease of his face but the rag he was using was more dirty that his hands. Fucking hell, why didn’t he keep track of the time? Len suddenly noticed Barry paused, standing in front of him, and he looked up.  “Is there something you need?” Len asked, trying to make himself sound pleasant. He doubted it came across right.

“Uh, Mick said I’m supposed to change the temperature? Do you know how I do that?” Barry asked.

“That fucking bastard,” Len said to himself.

“Uhm?”

“Nothing,” Len said, jaw locking with annoyance. “You cold?”

_“You’re_ Cold,” Barry said, a sudden smile on his face.

That smile. Looking at Len. Len froze, looking at him, more like staring, as Barry’s whole face just seemed to brighten his entire point of view, and the awkward, cute chuckle Barry made afterward just churned Len’s stomach like a drill.  

“Sorry,” Barry said, scratching the back of his head.

“No, that was funny,” Len said, honestly.

“Oh, okay,” Barry said, awkward, and then he added, “I guess I’m cold.”

Well, shit. Mick had won. Len pointed over to the temperature controls. “Change it to whatever’s comfortable,” he said, dreading it but not letting it show on his face. As Barry walked behind him, Len stared down at his grease stained hands with annoyance.  “You might need to wipe your hands,” Len told Barry.

“’Kay.”

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Okay?”

Fuck.

* * *

 

Len didn’t even have enough hair to comb but he still ran his hand over the top of his head several times, glaring daggers at his appearance in the mirror. He straightened up his clothes, glad at the very least he’d thought to bring something nice, the high collar of his shirt and coat comfortable, everything in varying shades of navy and dark blue and… did he dress strange? Len never exactly thought about how he dressed, fuck it, he wore the parkas 99% of the time now anyways half for the notoriety and half ‘cause it was just fucking easy.

No. That was done, no more second guessing. It was time to run into the fucking wall and wait for it to hurt or give. Len had his move, planned and ready, and now he was going to… run into that fucking wall.

He tugged on his jacket, ran his hand over his head again, and walked, fast to avoid Mick’s smug face, out of the bathroom and into the back room.

The light of the basement was bright at the center, but the walls were painted with long shadows, the equipment on the tables having a strange, too bright quality, the targets on the back wall looking farther away than they actually were. Under the stairs was a locked cabinet that was melted into the ground, and Len walked over, shaking his keys, reaching for the specific thing he needed. The blaster, courtesy of Flute Glasses.

Barry was hunched over the safe, plastic gloves over his hands as he was slowly dripping a liquid from a small dropper onto one of the sides. His nose and eyes were wrinkled with concentration.

Len almost smiled as he saw him, but he held it back. He rested the gun on the palm of his hand and said, “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

Barry looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted. “Huh? Uh, yeah, sure. For what?”

“I want to show you something,” Len said.

Barry, concerned, frowned at Len. But he stood up, a good sport, and pulled the gloves off his hand. “You’re… what’s the gun for?” He asked, nervous.

“Glasses made this,” Len said.

“Glasses?”

“Rathaway,” Len translated.

“Oh. Hartley. Okay,” Barry said. He looked at the gun. He looked at Len’s face. “So….?”

“I’m calling it the Chillblaine,” Len said, feeling more confident as he explained the gun. He moved closer to Barry, holding the gun and turning it over as he spoke, “it doesn’t run on the same power scheme as my Cold Gun, I wouldn’t let Glasses near that. It operates more like Mick’s flamethrower, and not. The gun shoots a technology similar to my ice grenades-”

“You have ice grenades?!” Barry said, with that Len decided to interpret as amazement.

“I’m field testing them soon,” he answered, and then continued. “The blaster is, as you can see, about the size of a semiautomatic handgun though it weighs almost double. It shoots a projectile, which explodes upon impact, the inside of the projectile is extremely cold, it freezes nearby hydrogen in the air through a chemical reaction and greatly reduces a localized temperature. It’s an effective attack against anyone, metahuman,” he said, slowing for dramatic effect, “citizen, police, rowdy biker, or,” he paused, and then added, casually, “the Flash.”

“Oh,” Barry said. Barry stepped back, like he was nervous, and Len frowned.

Len stepped forward, Barry froze, and then Len held the gun out, the handle toward Barry. “Hold it,” Len said.

Barry, eyes wide, reached out while staring at Len’s face, as if looking for something, and took the gun. Slowly. And pulled it back toward his chest, slowly. “It is heavy,” Barry said to Len.

“You want to see it in action?” Len asked him.

“Do I… why?” Barry swallowed.

Len tilted his head, curious at the shocked expression on Barry’s face. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“Yes,” Barry said, obviously nervous.

Len paused, for several long seconds, looking at Barry and Barry staring back at him. “I’m putting one of these under the bar,” Len explained, “I want to make sure there’s always someone on duty who knows how to use it.”

“Oh!” Barry instantly relaxed. “That makes sense.”

“Stand over here,” Len said, moving to the back of the basement, directly across from a mattress propped on the other wall that had been painted like a target. “It can be tricky to use.”

“Yeah, sure,” Barry said. He walked to Len’s side, holding the gun with a practiced grip in front of him, two hands on the handle, his form not unlike a cop. That made sense, Barry’s foster father had probably taken him to a gun range a couple times.

Everyone liked guns, they liked the rush of using it, they liked the power they felt when they saw the damage to the target, or at least they did in Len’s experience. And, it gave Len the perfect reason to flirt in the tactile way.

He pulled out a black pair of gloves from his coat pocket, handing them to Barry as soon as Barry was next to him. “You’ll want these,” he said.

Barry took the gloves, slipping them on one hand at a time, fumbling a bit while holding the gun. Len waited, and eventually Barry had them on and squared up to the target.

“If you can manage it,” Len said, stepping behind Barry, close enough that leg brushed against Barry’s, “it’s better to hold the gun with one hand. It reduces the shock of the cold from the refrigeration in the barrel, lets you switch from one hand to the other if you need to fire shots off of each other.”

“How does it load?” Barry asked.

Len grinned at the question. “It’s a reloadable, detachable box magazine. I’ll have one spare under the counter beside the gun. The safety is on, by the way,” Len said, and he reached across Barry’s side, arm touching his, to slide of the gun and brush the lock to the open position. “There you are,” Len said. He pulled his hand away, and hesitated, but… Barry had stayed still, hadn’t moved away or even tensed at Len’s touch at all.

So he nodded to himself, and put his hand on Barry’s shoulders. “With one hand, you need to adjust your stance. Keep your opposite foot slightly behind the other, heel up to give you something to fall back on. Adjust your shoulders with it, don’t be afraid of the recoil. Don’t let yourself get stiff, keep your knees and arms slightly bent. Don’t lock up. The most jarring thing is going to be the release, you’ll feel a sudden intense chill in the gun hand, which will read as pain but be gone in a moment.”

“It hurts?” Barry asked.

“It’s more… shocking,” Len explained, “All the muscles in your hand will feel that sudden cold and tense. You have to make sure to remind yourself to relax. It’s something you get used to.”

“I don’t really think I’m going to be shooting a lot of cold guns,” Barry said.

“Hopefully,” Len said. He squeezed Barry’s shoulders, then lowered his hands, just setting the palms of his hands against Barry’s shoulderblades. “Go ahead.”

“I’m surprised the target isn’t painted like the Flash,” Barry said, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin.

“I’ll pass that along to Lisa,” Len said, amused. There was a flash of bright, almost white, blue before he knew it. Barry stumbled, his right hand flinging back and dropping the gun. Barry backed against Len, almost falling, but Len grabbed him by armpits and held him upright.

Barry looked so fucking adorable, as his gaze jumped to the two foot wide circle of ice in the mattress, to the gun on the floor, and then to his hand. “Damn,” he said, mouth open in shock.

Len smiled at him, keeping himself as still as possible, holding Barry against him as if he thought by being still Barry would forget, and stay pressed against him a moment longer. But then Barry’s face turned pink, and he jumped out of Len’s hold. “Sorry!” Barry said, loudly. Embarrassed, he jumped over to the gun, all lanky, awkward limbs, grabbing the gun. “I wasn’t- it wasn’t the recoil; I was just surprised. I didn’t actually expect it to feel that cold.”

“It is,” Len said, simply.

Barry looked at the gun in his hand and frowned. “You don’t wear gloves, half the time, and you use two hands with your gun?”

“You’ve been watching me?” Len asked, holding back any excitement at the thought. Though it was kind of… exhilarating, the idea of Barry watching him on a news screen, as Captain Cold, the idea that Barry had seen how successful Len’s infamous crime spree was, that Barry had seen Len go toe to toe with the metahuman speedster, the Flash, and come out the winner.

And Barry looked at him, staring, face slowly turning redder and redder. “I…” he finally managed to squeak out.

“The Cold gun is different,” Len said, letting Barry off the hook with no small amount of reluctance, “it freezes particles it comes into contact with by slowing them down, it has a specific range I can adjust. When I wear gloves, I set the scope wider, and smaller when I’m not. And my gun is a lot heavier than what you’re holding.”

“That makes sense,” Barry said, with a nod to himself.

“Shoot yours again, get used to it," Len said. Encouraging.

Barry, squaring himself up, did and hardly hesitated. This time he was prepared, Barry only stepped back onto his heel and the shot hit the mattress nearly in the center.

"You adjust fast," Len complimented.

"Do you really have ice grenades?" Barry asked.

"It's part of the new technologies we're developing," Len said.

"That, uh, makes you sound like a tech company," Barry said. He fingered the gun for a moment, and then squared up to shoot again. Len grabbed Barry's shoulders without thinking to steady him.

Barry shot, it was a good shot, and Len let go.

"Everyone I brought in has something else to offer in terms of expertise, I'm working closely with James and Hartley to give us a better edge," Len explained. He did his best to sound more matter-of-fact, but he really couldn't help the slight theatricality of it all. He was trying to impress Allen, after all.

"James..." Barry said, lowering the gun.

Len stepped in front of Barry, taking the gun and gesturing for Barry to follow him back over to the locker. "Jesse. You've seen him around," Len drawled, "Italian, tall, smarter than he looks. Anyway, James seems to specialize in making annoying little gadgets and Hartley's our own personal, all-around science brain. I'm getting as much as I can out of them for free."

Len opened the locker, which was its own experimental weapons locker, full of dangerous looking items and a few deceptively innocent baubles. "It's important to be on the cutting edge of weapons technology and now I'm producing my own," he said, strapping the Chillblaine gun beside four identical items.

"Are you... planning on killing the Flash?" Barry asked, and Len wondered what the soft tone Barry was speaking in meant. Impressed? Reverent? He hoped so, but in either case…

"That's not the plan," Len said. And he was about to shut the door when he thought better. He leaned down, opened a drawer, and pulled out a heavy, near sixty pound gun with a white and blue barrel, the entirety of which was almost twice as long as his forearm. He turned back to Barry, who did look interested, and showed it off. "This is-" he started to say, and Barry interrupted.

"Why are you always fighting the-" Barry said, curious, and then his face flushed and he continued, nervously, "the Flash? If that's not the plan?"

"Why are you so interested in what I'm doing?" Len said, taking a short step forward.

Barry's eyes widened. "Um...?"

"You seem pretty curious about me," Len said, tilting his head, watching every small expression change on Barry's face with a hidden excitement.

"Uh, I-" Barry stepped back.

"I have a plan for dealing with the Flash," Len said, calm, and turned his attention to the device in his hand. "But now, _this_ is the little trick that Glasses gave to me so I'd consider him for the team," he explained as he showed Barry. "This, with Mark's help, would drop the temperature in Central City and the majority of Keystone down to ten below freezing at the drop of a hat."

"You- whoa," Barry said, staring at the device.

"I'm very excited about it," Len admitted, casual. "Though, I only get to use it once before I'm sure the Flash figures out a way to disrupt or hack into it." He turned back, setting the heavy gun away. "How are you getting along identifying the DNA and fingerprints on the safe?" he asked. Was it just the lightning in the basement or did Barry look a bit pale?

"I have a, I have a list," Barry said, nervous. "Upstairs uh, in my jacket."

"Good work," Len said, glad he could move on to getting that item. Though, now he needed to find another job for Barry to do.

"I should go back up to the bar then," Barry said.

"If you want to," Len told him. "Do you have anything else you want to ask me?"

"No! No, don't worry, nothing else to bother you with. Thanks. I'll get out of, your hair? Uh, now. Out of your way. Sorry for bothering you." Barry mumbled, hands pushed into his pants pockets and then out, then back, and then he nodded at Len and was at the stairs at a pace between walking and jogging. "Thanks!" Barry added, as he left.

That had not gone well. Fuck, maybe he shouldn't- should've, well shit. He needed a drink and that was the last thing he was able to do.

Why did he have to have feelings for his _bartender?_


End file.
